Two Rooms At The End Of The World
by Tidwell
Summary: House's request for a week off is strange enough. But the reason for his request is the real shocker. A definite 'what if' story. Chapter 16 is up. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: _**When I came up with the idea for this story, I thought of the lyrics to this semi-obscure Elton John song. They seemed to fit the tale very well.

Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

Many thanks to my beta and friend NaiveEve for all her encouragement and help.

**-1-**

_Don't judge us by distance_

_Or the difference between us_

_Try to look at it with an open mind_

_For where there is one room, you'll always find another_

_Two rooms at the end of the world._

_excerpt from "Two Rooms At the End Of the World" (Elton John/Bernie Taupin)_

The memory of Honolulu's north shore came hurtling at her like some crazily spinning sun, making a place inside her, filling her with its warmth. The memory was a welcome respite. She luxuriated in it, was grateful for it. Back then the needle of that old Stress-O-Meter didn't dare dip into the red.

Yes. Those were the days.

Once upon a time, during spring break from university, she took a trip to the idyllic Hawaiian island with her best friend Eileen Milfred. Sitting side by side on the beach, they dug their toes in the silken sand, seeking the cooler, moister grit beneath it as they guzzled Mai Tais and ogled surfer boys.

The day was special for reasons other than the sun, the sand, and her flirtation with Roj, the King of the Wild Surf. It was the day she decided to get her head together, forget her inexplicable lust for a certain infuriating, tall blue eyed classmate. She had never met a man who could fill her with such overwhelming rage yet make her melt her into a steaming puddle of goo in his very adept hands.

_That ship sailed long ago,_ she told him recently. Times change; people change. Then she was Lissey. Now she was Dr. Lisa Cuddy. Then he was Greg, Gregory, G-Man. Now...he is House. Both of them are older, wiser, grayer, each with good sized chinks gouged out of their armor. Damaged. But that was okay. That was life.

Back then she was responsible for keeping up her grades, making sure the 'little things' and her sex life didn't obscure her goals for the future. She vowed never to tie herself to a man and allow the relationship to take precedence over her own wants and needs. Her mother did it. Her sister did it. Early on, Lissey promised herself to break the mold. And here she was, the mold breaker, a hospital administrator, a successful woman of the world.

Now the woman of the world was holding her stress at bay by taking slow deep breaths and keeping that memory of Honolulu as a virtual backdrop. Her plan was making sure the three meetings today (count 'em, three!) today went off without a hitch. There was: a board meeting at noon, a malpractice hearing for one of her cardiologists at two, and, at four thirty, a late tea with two of the hospital's major benefactors.

Oh, gosh, yes. It was bound to be an interesting day; the Stress-O-Meter needle was already shivering toward the scarlet.

She was putting the final touches on her report to the board when the office door banged open.

"Shit!"

Her pen fell from her fingers. With a grunt, she slapped her hands against her blotter as annoyance sent the Stress-O-Meter needle zinging as far into the red as it could go.

"Little skittish today, are we?"

She raised her eyes slightly, scowling at the rubber tip of a cane as it _thwapped_ the front edge of her desk.

"Ho-ouse?"

Loath to lift her head, she kept her eyes fixed on that cane.. Meeting his eyes and being on the receiving end of his smirk was bound to incense her more. She let out a shaky sigh. _Oh, what the hell? _Her sense of calm was already destroyed. Snagging a pencil from her cup, she jabbed it at him as she shot him a leer. "Next time knock."

"What? And lose my edge, my element of surprise?" He clicked his tongue, quirked a brow. "No can do. Besides, who knows what sort of fiendishly naughty position I might find you in-"

"House."

"-with one of your swarthy boy toys."

"I'm extremely busy." She massaged her temple with two fingers. "What do you want?"

"I need next week off." He leaned both hands on the head of his cane.

"That's a good one. Ask me again in about six months." The cardiologist's legal file lay open by her hand. She made a great show of skimming through the facts, although she was pretty sure could recite them in her sleep.

"No can do."

"Stop saying that." She slapped the file closed.

"I need nextweek off."

"How many Vicodin did _you _take today?"

"I need the time, Cuddy." His smirk had drifted off into the ozone. Now he did a wardrobe change, slipping on that earnest little boy look.

Clearing her throat, she leaned forward and steepled her fingers under her chin. "Okay, I'll bite."

His eyes twinkled as his smile returned.

She thrust a finger at him. "Don't you dare."

"You're just no fun." he whined.

Cuddy narrowed her eyes. "Why are you giving me such short notice for this vacation? Is something wrong?"

"No."

"Then why do you need the time?"

He shrugged as he twirled his cane like a baton. "I'm getting married."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

_You're going to have to deal with them. I can't do it for you._

Myrna carried the empty cardboard box from the kitchen into the living room and dropped it by the bookshelf.

_Are you sure about this? Do you know what you're getting yourself into? I'm selfish, a bastard, I'll sit for hours, staring at the TV or at a video game or reading journals without even acknowledging you. Is that what you want?_

That was okay. She simply liked the idea of him being around. His presence made her feel good, and talk for the sake of talking didn't appeal to her anyway. When they did converse, their conversations flowed naturally, easy. And if there was a subject that was off limits, she hadn't discovered it yet.

_I take Vicodin. I like it. It makes my pain go away. If you think you can play the nurse card at home and wean me off my candy, forget it. I'm an old dog. New tricks don't apply to me._

She had no plans to change him. She liked him the way he was. This was something _he _was going to have to get through his head.

_I give us a year..._

Myrna had been taught patience at an early age. She was also made to believe that no one was put on this earth to entertain her. Encouraged as a child to occupy herself with books, with drawing, with...thinking, she grew to appreciate and even enjoy solitude. Myrna didn't need people. But she liked them and was surprised to discover that after six months of this odd, clandestine relationship, she _loved _Greg.

_...two at the most if the sex stays the way it is._

She exhaled slowly, brushing back a strand of hair from her brow with her palm. The room was a mess, cartons everywhere, some half filled, some sealed, some gaping like the maws of beasts, waiting to devour her stuff.

_Here's what you can expect. They'll start by calling. They'll seem nice but don't let that fool you. They're nosy and proprietary about me. They're going to push you for more information than you'll probably want to give._

She started her task before daylight. If this had been a workday, she would be just about ready for breakfast, a bath and sleep. But this was Monday morning and her shift at the hospital was Monday through Friday, 11:00 P.M to 7:00 A.M. She had tons of time to get the rest of the stuff packed or tossed away and then get some shuteye.

_You can tell them to go to hell if you want. It won't bother me. But you might suffer for it later. They're a pretty catty bunch._

Her main goal was to rid herself of anything she would not miss, stuff that would have no bearing on this new life she was stumbling into: old magazines, ancient knitting projects she would never complete, hats and shoes she thought were cute when she'd purchased them but now had lost their appeal. One thing she didn't want was to clutter up Greg's apartment, a place which would soon be _her_ home too.

Over the weekend she had driven around town in her SUV, while Greg languished in her bed, flicking the remote, downing some brews and the Chex Mix she had left for him (she hadn't wanted him tagging along, nor did he want to), stopping in supermarkets, book stores, package stores in a fairly fruitless searching for boxes. Initially she laughed about it but the search quickly became a drudge. She ended up purchasing cartons from Mailboxes, Etc.

_Wilson will be your first visitor._ _He may drop by unannounced so be prepared. He will be pissed off because I didn't tell him about our plans sooner. Don't let him get to you._

Starting at the top shelf, she removed her books with care. One by one, she set them gently inside the box. The books were not especially sought after in the collector's market. But they were important to her. Some had been in her possession for most of her life, almost thirty years.

Her attachment to those leather and paper bound treasures was something Greg understood. He made room for them on his bookshelf without fanfare, without telling her. _Okay_, she thought, _I can play this game too_ and didn't mention the empty shelves either. But she couldn't help smiling whenever she saw them. And when he saw that smile, he sniffed out a laugh, knowing he had won the round.

She was glad he was at work today. Getting anything done when he was around was like trying to shift the Taj Mahal with ice tongs. Impossible. He was impossible, absolutely no help and an extremely strong distraction-in a good way, she had to admit. He made her laugh more than anyone had ever made her laugh. Yesterday, he lazed on her living room sofa (which was put up for sale in this week's _Bargain News_) and leafed through one of her photo albums. As she gathered, sorted, tossed stuff and packed stuff, he would regale her with stories of his college years, the lighter side of his various relationships, throw in some snide comments about her baby pictures and give her the general lowdown on the world according to Greg.

And when she reached the point where she was her sweatiest and dustiest, when strands of her dirty blonde hair grew limp from perspiration and fell in her face, he patted the area of the sofa next to him.

_"C'mere."_

_She gave him an incredulous look and spread out her arms. "Now?"_

_"Yep."_

_"Look at me."_

_"I am." He patted the sofa again._

_"Let me at least shower."_

_"Nooo, no, no, no. Sweat is sexy." _

_"Weirdo." _

_That was when she swaggered toward him. The promise of his stubble grazing her thighs and prickling her nipples was too tempting to resist._

Now she stared at the book at her hand and at those still waiting on her shelf. She shook her head. He distracted her even when he wasn't here.

"Damn you," she whispered and placed the book in the box.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What...is a friend?"

Wilson situated himself behind House and dropped a paperback dictionary on the desk, barely missing the half eaten roast beef and horseradish sandwich by House's hand.

"Please tell me." Wilson continued. "If you need to look up the word, go right ahead. I'll wait."

Turning his head as he chewed, House raised his brows and threw Wilson a puzzled look.

"I see you're having a problem getting my gist so I'll save you the trouble." Wilson sauntered around the desk, pulled up a chair and seated himself across from House. "A friend, according to the _Encarta World English Dictionary, _is 'somebody emotionally close to another; somebody who has a close personal relationship of mutual affection and trust with another'." He managed a sour grin. "Sound familiar?"

House swallowed his food before guzzling his root beer. "As far as 'gists' go, I get it. And I know exactly why you're here."

"Oh, I'm sure you do."

House tore a chunk from his sandwich and popped it in his mouth. "What? You didn't bring the paparazzi? Gee, I'm surprised since these tabloid reports sure travel quickly in PPTH," he mumbled through his half chewed food. "Doesn't anybody have a life anymore? You're all gossip hounds."

Setting his elbows on his desk, his chin in his hands, Wilson shook his head. "You never even told me you were _dating_ anyone."

Peering beneath the top slice of bread, House shook his head and frowned. He scrunched the remainder of the sandwich into its wrapper.

"Is there an explanation you'd like to offer? A few words of clarification for someone who has a mild interest in your well being?" Wilson settled back into his chair and folded his arms, half expecting House to tell him to get the hell out of his office. Instead, House looked up from the remnants of his soon to be discarded sandwich and offered Wilson a resigned grin.

"Myrna Bromfeld is a nurse here."

"I _know_ who Myrna is."

"Before she became an RN she used to work nights at the reception desk."

"I knew that too."

"If I'm boring you just yawn or something-"

"Go on. I'm listening."

"Sometimes I'd be here late or come in early and she'd be out there, reading her magazines-the trashy, gossipy ones: _Us_, _The Star, OK._" He pushed crumbs around his desk, unease playing on his features, in the hunch of his shoulders. "I wondered why a seemingly intelligent woman would bother with those rags."

"You read them too."

"_Exactly!" _

"So you immediately gleaned you might have found your soulmate from her choice of reading material."

"It got me interested," he said. "We talked. She _was_ interesting. A loner. Family's in Minnesota. Just a brother and her mother."

"Actually, _that_ sounds pretty damn boring."

"You know what?" House drummed his fingers against the desk. "_You _are pretty damn boring."

"Oooh, aren't we Mr-Defensive-Don't-Talk-Shit-About-My-Lady?" Wilson smirked and tapped his foot. "Now _this_ is getting interesting."

"Fuck you."

"I've never been able to push your buttons so easily." Wilson's laughter was loud and hearty, filling up the room. "This is fun. Go on."

"No. Forget it."

Wilson hung his head, exhaled sharply, then fixed his friend with an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. Please." He made a rolling gesture with one hand, stifling another laugh. "Continue."

House rubbed his brow and was silent so long, Wilson figured he was done talking.

Then:

"Six months ago we started going to breakfast together a couple of times a week," he said slowly. "Pretty soon we were meeting up every day. Her shift ended at seven. I didn't have to be in until ten or ten thirty. So I'd meet her at Pascal's, which is far enough away so no one would suspect."

"Pascal's Diner is one whole town over. You did a good job."

"It's all in the planning."

"So is she as sneaky and underhanded as you?"

"Stop sounding so bitter or I won't invite you to the wedding."

Wilson clicked his tongue a couple of times and ran his hand through his hair. "I cannot believe you're doing this," he said softly, almost to himself.

"After awhile we skipped the diner and went to her place or mine. She'd cook some eggs, some pancakes. We'd watch a DVD, talk awhile. Then I'd go to work."

Wilson's brows lifted.

"But one day the movie and conversation weren't nearly as interesting as the way she was looking at me."

"I don't think I want to hear anymore."

"Okay, then." House tossed the remainder of his sandwich and its wrapper into the trashcan beneath his desk. "I'm done. You can just conjure up the rest in that libido fueled mind of yours."

"You know, you lived with Stacy for five years." Wilson's eyes narrowed. His temples throbbed as he licked his lips. His laughter was gone now, dried up like dead fish on cold sand. "Five years and you didn't so much as give her an engagement ring." He tapped the ring finger of his left hand. "But Myrna, a woman you've had breakfast dates with for the last six months, you decide to marry. _Mar-ry_." He leaned forward, punctuating each syllable with a thrust of his forefinger. "Doesn't she know what kind of ass you are? I can't believe you've been on your best behavior-"

"She knows everything." House said matter-of-factly. "Believe me, I've warned her."

"God help her." Wilson squeezed his eyes shut then opened them slowly, hoping to find that this had been a dream, a nightmare. "Who did the asking?"

"Hmm?"

"Did she ask you to marry her?"

"I asked her. Last week."

"Why?

House looked pensive as he sipped the dregs of his soda. "I felt like it."

"You..._felt_ like it, like you felt like going bowling or out for Chinese food?"

"I never feel like bowling." House patted his thigh. "Bum leg messes up my form."

"You are...ridiculous!" Wilson threw his hands in the air. "At least I went through the ritual of courtship, engagement and all those normal pre-marriage rituals every time I got married."

House smirked. "That's three times for you. Three. Count 'em." House hitched forward in his seat, shaking a triumvirate of fingers into Wilson's face. "Who has the better track record here?"

"Yes, you're a babe in the woods, just starting down that nettled path of drudgery, disagreement and divorce. But...okay." Wilson threw him a defeated wave. "I get your point."

House sank back into his chair and folded his arms, grinning triumphantly. After a moment, he picked up his PSP, clicked it on and studied the screen as the music plinked and blipped.

"Is this to be a church wedding?" Wilson asked.

"Nope, Myrna's Jewish. The Justice Of The Peace at the Princeton Town Hall will be the man with the plan. 11 A.M. Saturday morning. Be there or forfeit your dance card." His thumbs danced over the game machine's buttons. "Reception to follow at _Sergio's_. There'll be an open bar so come by limo, taxi, hansom cab or bring your designated driver."

"When did you plan on telling me all this?"

"Oh...today, tonight...whenever."

"I might have been busy Saturday."

"Doing what? Getting your Volvo waxed, buying new boxers?" House leaned in closer to the screen. "Or is it briefs?"

Wilson whistled softly, watching the blue and yellow lights from the screen flicker across House's cheeks and brow. "How could she agree to such slapdash nuptials?"

"Hey, an offer like mine doesn't come along every day." The crackle and pops of fireworks sounded from the small but ample speakers. House's thumbs doubled their speed. "She's smart enough to realize that."

"Yeah." Wilson glowered. "Whatta catch."

"Ooooh, yesss!" House thrust a fist in the air as the game music swelled...then faded away.

"You should wait," Wilson said. "Give it a year. Live with her."

"Like you did with your three lovely brides? I mean, Jimmy, you were so incredibly careful. Such forethought went into your decisions to marry those women."

"Like you-?"

"The difference between you and me is that my sense of guilt is next to nil." House grabbed his cane from where it leaned against the side of his chair. "I've been through a relationship, which was..."

"The pinnacle and the depths," Wilson chimed in. "like all relationships,"

"But since I've never actually been married," House leaned on his cane and pushed himself to his feet. "I thought I might as well try it out."

"So it's an experiment."

"Nooo. I'm in love. Can't you tell?"

"Not really."

House beamed and headed toward the door. "Say hello to Myrna for me when you see her."

Wilson flinched as if he had been smacked with a wet washcloth. "Why would I-?"

"Because that is your plan. Go on, harangue the bride-to-be, sling all the dirt about me that's meant to be slung. In the meantime," he pulled open the door. "There are, '_ow you say, _lives to save."

Wilson watched the door drift slowly shut. Maybe he wouldn't drive to Myrna's as he had planned. Maybe he would spend the hours he had freed up reading through case files and a new oncology journal that arrived today. But he was already on his feet, his hand in his pocket, jangling his car keys. In his mind he was already in the garage, in his car, his foot on the gas, winging his way to warn poor misguided Ms. Bromfeld of her impending doom.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed or just read and enjoyed (that's okay too).

**Disclaimer:** House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

Thanks to the wonderful NaiveEve for the beta.

**-2-**

Cuddy lifted the receiver and stared at it as if its slim black form held the secret of life. She sighed, twisting her lips, not at all thrilled to be making this call. The day was aggravating enough without having this new wrinkle to worry about.

_Give me a break, somebody...puhleeze._

If she could have one wish it would be to stuff this entire day inside a wooden crate and throw it off the observation deck of the Empire State Building. If the gods liked her enough, they might guide that crate on its journey as it hurtled down, down, down at top speed, sending it crashing through the roof of the board chairman's Lexus. Yes, crushing that car roof would be nice. It would be even nicer if Mr. Board Chairman Siliman were cozy and unsuspecting inside its leather interior. _Crash! Crrrrush!_ Well, oops! Such is life. The thought was invigorating. But it didn't make her feel any better about this anxiety riddled day, which was far from being over.

The board meeting had dissolved into a festival of sniping and backbiting. A loud, somewhat vile disagreement (rife with heaping helpings of the 'f' word) between the Siliman and Margot Tristan, the treasurer, ended the soiree on a sour note. They would resume next Monday afternoon, same time, same conference room. Cuddy could hardly wait.

_Kill me now._

Malpractice hearing was in an hour. Would the fun never end?

With a sigh, she checked the phone number on the file before her, although she had already committed it to memory. The phone was still in her hand, _beep, beep, beeping _at her, reminding her to get her ass in gear. She glared at it now like it was a sworn enemy, then prodded herself into action, jabbing the seven digits into the keypad. The phone burred in her ear...once...twice...

"Hello?"

"Hi," said Cuddy, toning down the professional administrator in her voice, summoning up the amiable, approachable employer. "Is this Myrna?"

There was a moment of dead air, quickly replaced by the sound of a soft, tentative, "Ye-ah."

"Hi, Myrna. This is Lisa Cuddy from Princeton-Plainsboro."

"Hello, Dr. Cuddy."

"_Strange how she didn't even sound surprised_", Cuddy thought. "_It was almost as if she knew..."_

"I just wanted to...um...congratulate you on your news."

There was another moment of silence, broken by what might have been a soft amused snort.

_She was laughing?_

"Why, that's very nice of you," Myrna said. "Thank you very much."

"I-I mean, _we_...a couple of us were wondering." Cuddy scraped a finger down the receiver's smooth surface. She exhaled slowly, silently. "We wanted to take you out. Sort of a pre-wedding bash."

"Oh...really?"

"I know you must have a lot to do." Cuddy straightened some papers that were already stacked in a neat pile before her. "So if you'd rather not-"

"I would love to, Dr. Cuddy."

"Oh, well...that's good." Cuddy glanced at Myrna's file again. "I see you've requested vacation time beginning this Thursday through a week from Sunday."

"Yes."

"So would Wednesday night be good for you? About seven?"

"Sounds like a plan."

Cuddy wondered about that little smirk in the woman's tone. "You...don't sound too surprised to hear from me. Did someone already call you about this?"

"No. But Greg mentioned you might be in touch." Myrna freed the chuckle that seemed to have been lurking in the back of her throat.

"Ah."

"He's kind of magical like that."

_Magical! The poor woman was totally smitten. _

"I...see." Cuddy winced. "Alright, so Wednesday at seven. We'll pick you up at your place."

"Oh, I can drive," Myrna said. "Just let me know where to meet you."

_We're going to get you so incredibly shit faced drunk..._

"Let us do the driving. This is going to be your night."

There was a pause. Cuddy heard a slight intake of breath, then, "Alright, if you don't mind."

"Not at all. It's our pleasure."

"I'm...looking forward to it." Myrna's voice shook slightly. "Thanks."

"Dress casual but nice."

"Uh, okay."

"See you then." Setting the receiver softly in its cradle, Cuddy fixed her eyes on the woman who had been sitting across from her during the call. "She's looking forward to going."

Cameron nodded slowly. She had been leaning forward for the duration of the conversation, eyes wide with interest. Now she folded her arms and sank back into her chair with a sigh. "Great," she said without a trace of a smile.

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Myrna had scheduled enough time for everything on her to do list, as well as tucking away six hours for something called sleep. But like most of her recent well calculated plans, these had just been tossed in the dumpster. Someone wanted to buy her bed _and_ her sofa. The call interrupted her in the bank, just as she was signing the last of the traveler's checks. Martin Slawson was the prospective bed buyer's name. Could he come at five? He would have cash in hand, a flatbed truck at the ready. If he liked what he saw, he would take the furniture away _immediatamentally_ (his stupid word, not hers).

_The Bargain News_ hit the stands today and it looked as though its success stats might have just risen a notch. Which was great. She was happy, of course. Only thing was now she would be lucky to get in a couple of hours of shuteye before work. If the bed sold, she was going to be forced to stay at Greg's, which made the idea of sleeping without...some interesting distractions a fantasy of gynormous proportions.

After purchasing the traveler's checks, Myrna brought her red and cream colored dress to the dry cleaner (this would be Wednesday night's dress, she decided after a few moments of deliberation and picking through the clothes not already packed away) and ordered up a chicken salad wrap at the drive-thru at Duchess.

Upon her return, she parked across the street from her building rather than in the garage.

_And, oh my god, look at this..._

The sight of the slim, handsome, somewhat lost looking man pacing circles in front of her building put Myrna that much more in awe of Greg's speculative powers.

_Magic..._

She locked her vehicle, quickly eradicating her knowing smile by forcing herself to remember that her mother and Georgie would be arriving on Thursday, the movers would be coming early that same day, and she was set to meet Greg's parents for the first time on Friday.

Her lease wasn't up for two months but the management company was allowing her to break it-as long as they could keep her seven hundred dollar security deposit. Greg had wanted to fight them, proclaiming the apartment was spotless and she shouldn't have to put up with that sort of treatment. It wasn't worth arguing about, she had told him, setting a plate of nachos before him on the coffee table and smoothing a hand through his hair. The snack and her gentle ministrations instantly diverted his thoughts away from the management company's proposition. He was like a twelve year old that way, so easy to distract with food and affection.

"Dr. Wilson?" she asked as she cautiously approached.

He stopped his pacing and spun on this heel to face her. "Hello, Myrna."

"Is...everything okay?"

"Uh, yeah. I rang your buzzer...downstairs." He said, giving an uncomfortable hitch of his shoulder, like he was trying to throw off some small animal clawing at his back. "You weren't there. I figured I'd wait around and...well, here you are."

"Ah, yeah, errands to run. I had to get some traveler's checks."

"Oh." He scrubbed a hand through his hair and pulled at his collar. His brow was slick with perspiration even though this May afternoon was not overly warm. "Traveler's checks."

"I went to the dry cleaners too. Dr. Cuddy set up some kind of party for me on Wednesday, so I figured," She threw her arms up and shrugged. "I'd better get the ol' standby dress looking decent."

"A party?"

"Oh, they're taking me somewhere." Tilting her head, she added, "I don't know..."

"They do that...uh, when someone's getting...uh." Wilson suddenly became interested in his shoes, moving one toe back and forth over a crack in the sidewalk."

"Dr. Wilson?"

"Please. Call me James." He raised his head quickly to meet her eyes. "Or Jimmy."

"Would you like a cold drink...James?"

"Oh, that sounds good."

"I'm afraid I don't have too much to offer you," she said, leading him into the building and opening the lobby security door with her key. "We're trying to use up everything in the fridge and Greg's already polished off the beer."

"Greg."

She smiled and shook her head as they reached the elevator bank. "Are you're having a hard time with this, James?"

"Me? Ah, I don't...I mean. Yes." He nodded fervently, more times than was necessary to confirm the affirmative.

The elevator arrived. When the doors opened, they stepped back to make room for an elderly man and a woman pushing a toddler in a stroller to exit the car.

The man, sporting a straw boater and a bow tie, stopped, doffed his hat and grinned, revealing a mouthful of bright new looking teeth. He took Myrna's hand in his slightly tremulous one. "I hear you're leaving us, my dear."

"Yes, Freddie. The time has come to move on."

"But," His bright blue eyes moved over Wilson like they were surveying a rare archeological find. "this is not your intended. This one has a kinder face and _he_ shaves. Maybe you should reconsider, dear."

"No, Freddie." Myrna took his hand in hers. "I think I've found the one I want."

"Oh, oh dear, well..." He eyed Wilson again. "If it doesn't work out with you and..."

"Greg."

"...nothing wrong with having a little back up plan, eh?" Freddie nudged his chin at Wilson and winked.

Freddie tottered off as Myrna and Wilson entered the car, Myrna restraining her laughter until the doors slid shut, until they were safely on their way, which is when she...

...laughed...and laughed...and laughed.

She knew her laughter was infectious. It was her secret weapon. When she lived home she would use it to bring her mother out of a funk or get George to quit acting like an insolent brat. She defused a number of unpleasant domestic showdowns with humor and that laugh. Starting as a low chuckle, it rose, spiraling higher and higher to become a sparkling, musical trill. Now she sent it ricocheting up and back, bouncing off the four close walls of the elevator, causing Wilson to finally find his release and join in.

And when the car reached the third floor, they were still giggling like school kids, wiping their tears on their palms and their sleeves.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson seated himself on Myrna's sofa, shifting his butt between two cushions, not allowing himself to get too comfortable. He kept his feet flat against the hardwood floor, his hands clasped together, like at any moment he might genuflect and pray. The glow from the laughing jag Myrna had initiated lingered, warmed him, made him feel...good. Which was _not_ good. He would prefer to be in a foul mood, ala _House_. The things he wanted to discuss would make much more of an impression if he were knee deep in the doldrums.

"Diet Coke or Poland Springs." Myrna emerged from the kitchen, brandishing the water bottle in one hand, soda in the other.

"Water's fine." He lifted one hand in thanks as she disappeared around the corner.

The living room was filled with light. Sunlight and lamplight seemed to have taken residence in all the spots curtains, knick knacks or any sort of personal touches might have once lived. The place seemed clean, dust free. It was a good thing Myrna was a decent housekeeper. House certainly was not. If the maid didn't come in twice a week, his place would be a sty.

Sealed cardboard boxes were lined up against the walls, their contents emblazoned in black marker across their front and sides: '**Books'**, **'Clothes**', '**Housewares'**, '**Photos'**. It reminded Wilson how much he detested moving and how many times, through college, three marriages, and in and out of House's place, he had been forced to haul his belongings here, there and everywhere.

He threw on a grin and got to his feet as Myrna returned.

She was attractive in a 'plain Jane' sort of way. But there was more to her looks than what was immediately apparent. She didn't seem the type to accentuate her 'selling points' (Wilson chuckled silently over the double entendre). But as she moved, the loose fabric molded itself around her curves and the swell of her breasts, hinting at a ve-rry nice body under there. Still, she was not the type of woman he would have guessed House would fall for. House liked them porn film slutty or New York chic, and usually brunette. Myrna was the antithesis of all that, possessing a certain homespun farm girl quality. Her hair was a brownish blond, pulled back into a ponytail, her skin smooth, a bit too pale, eyes were on the greenish side of hazel. Her mouth, her most appealing facial feature, was wide, full and soft. Pretty damn perfect as mouths went. If she wore any makeup it might have been foundation with a touch of lipstick.

"Ah, such a gentleman." She handed him his drink in a Styrofoam cup, flopped down on the sofa with a sigh, then twisted the cap off her Coke. "Please, James. Sit."

He sipped his water and seated himself next to her.

"I'll tell you, I am exhausted. Between packing, working, planning the wedding, reception, whatever, I'm about ready to fall down." She laughed, then took a swig of her soda.

Wilson pouted, looking deep into the watery depths of his cup. "Why don't you wait?"

"Wait?"

"I hope you don't mind me asking. Believe me I'm not trying to pry into your business."

"But you are."

"Yes."

After another swig, she set her drink on a coaster on the sofa's wooden arm. "It's okay. You're like his brother."

"Oh, I don't know."

"You are. I can tell." Folding her hands on her lap, she went on. "You don't allow him to intimidate you or walk all over you."

"Oh, the walking part, he's done that. I'm pretty sure I've got the sneaker treads on my back to prove it."

She giggled. "Yes, well..."

"So why _don't_ you wait?" Wilson's voice was soft almost pleading. "What's the rush? You can live together."

"Greg doesn't want to. He wants to marry me." She enunciated the word _mar-ry, _like it was absolutely imperative to communicate the importance of it.

Wilson gazed at his shoes, noticing a new scuff mark on the right one, by the toe. "Maybe...see...maybe-"

"I know what you're going to say-that marriage is _interesting_ to him since he's never done it before. Believe me, " She paused to sip her drink. "I know how he hates being bored."

"What if he gets bored with you?" he asked.

Running one finger along the rim of the bottle, she shrugged. "That's a chance I'll have to take."

He watched her set her drink down again. Slowly she turned her head to meet his eyes.

"This might sound crass, brash or whatever," Wilson considered each word before it left his mouth. "But I'm not all that worried about how you will fare if anything should go wrong."

She shrugged. "Why should you? You don't have an emotional investment in me."

"That's not what I meant-"

"You're worried about him. You don't want to see him hurt. You want to protect him, like any true friend would." Her smile was gentle, compassionate-a smile they probably taught in nursing school. "I understand that. I _appreciate _that."

"He went through a long relationship."

"I know about Stacy."

"He was deeply in love with her."

"He still is, I'm sure. It never completely leaves you."

Wilson shot her a surprised look. "And you're okay with that?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No," he said. "I guess you don't."

"She's got five years on me," Myrna said. "which includes that proxy decision she had to make about the infarction. I can't compete with the emotional upheavals of what they went through together. And I wouldn't want to. This is different." This time the corners of her mouth trembled when she smiled. "This is _us."_

Wilson swirled the water in his cup before drinking it down. "People aren't just born thinking the way you think. You've obviously been through some...stuff. Plus...I sense you're not a New Yorker or a Jersey-ite for that matter."

"Wow." She chuckled. "You know how to read people. That's good, that's interesting." Tapping a finger against the armrest, she said, "No wonder you're his friend."

"Mmm hmm. It has its challenges, believe me."

"I'm finding that out." She laughed. "I grew up in Minneapolis. My father was a doctor. Fifteen years ago, just after my brother Georgie was born, dad died of a stroke." She sank back into the cushion and picked at a piece of lint on her jeans. "It was a real blow to my mom. She never saw it coming."

Wilson said nothing, just gave a nearly imperceptible nod and kept his eyes fixed on her.

"Her coping mechanism was never the best and, when I was home, I ended up caring for Georgie while she slept or watched TV or read the tabloids." Myrna splayed her fingers over her knees. "I was going to school, trying to keep up my grades. But it was impossible to do everything and do it right. I managed to graduate high school and spent the next five years, working menial jobs, taking care of the two of them."

"Was your mom diagnosed with depression?" Wilson asked.

"She was never diagnosed with anything because she refused to see a doctor. Said it was a waste of time..." Her brow furrowed; she drew her hand up to her face and traced it lightly down her cheek, her gaze set on the cardboard cartons against the wall.

"I was sick of waiting tables and cleaning offices so I found a job as a receptionist in the local nursing home. And...it was a turning point, one of those 'fate takes a hand' things you read about but you don't think could ever really happen. Certainly not to you."

Wilson smiled knowingly.

"The head nurse, Toby Lascomb, noticed how I spent more time talking with the staff about the patients than doing my job." Myrna threw her head back and chuckled at the memory. "But she was so cool about it, encouraging me to do rounds with her and go to nursing school. My problem was I knew I couldn't do it while I was living home. Too many distractions. Georgie was a handful, really got under my mother's skin. Plus I was going through a relationship...with this older guy. It was really...kind of twisted, kinky...but fun. Addictive."

Wilson raised his brows. This he would never have suspected. He pictured her in leather. He pictured her with a whip. His cheeks burned and he had to remind himself to breathe.

She rubbed her brow then pinched the bridge of her nose. "I...have no idea why I'm telling you this."

"I-it's okay," he stammered.

"After a while, being with this guy... was getting to me like everything else." She lowered her tone. "I think I was enjoying it too much. The sex...was such an amazingly intense release. But it was stifling me. I knew I had to leave him, my mother and George if I was ever going to have any kind of life of my own."

Guilt cast its shadow, darkening her eyes to a muddy brownish green.

"Toby took me under her wing. She helped me find a good school in Jersey, and networked to get me the receptionist job at Princeton-Plainsboro."

"You lucked out."

Suddenly her eyes lit up, her face...glowed. "In a lot of ways."

"Are we're still talking about your career move here?"

"Oooh, I don't know."

Myrna's glow was contagious, causing the corners of Wilson's lips to lift of their own accord. "He's a handful, Myrna." Wilson heaved a sigh. "Selfish, prideful and pigheaded. He's also an addict..."

"I know." She hung her head. "I figure if I can't convince him to detox, the least I can do is...offer him some distractions."

"He's always been good at finding those."

"Yeah, but now he won't have to pay for them."

"Damn," Wilson breathed. "You are something else."

"Not really, " she said. "I just have my own agenda." She rose, leaned over and took the empty cup from him. "I don't need Greg to complete me. I learned long ago how to be my own best friend, so I'm not in this to change him or to mother him or...smother him. If he wants to spend the day in front of the TV or down at the betting parlor, that's his prerogative." She picked up her half full soda bottle. "The only thing I won't abide is cheating. If he wants to screw around, I'm gone."

Wilson narrowed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "Somehow I don't think he'll go there."

"I've also learned to never assume. Temptation is a nasty thing. It gets to all of us at one time or another."

Standing now, Wilson pushed his hands into his pockets and inclined his head. "You know, I came here to try to change your mind about going through with this."

"I figured that."

"But it could be that now...I've changed _my_ mind."

"Really?" She brightened, smiling broadly like a kid who'd just been given a gold star.

"Really."

"Oh, that is good news. You're the only one out of all of them I cared about impressing." Myrna exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging with relief. "You pretty much just made my day."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Thanks to NaiveEve for the beta!**

Please Note: This chapter is rated '**M**'.

**-3-**

They were done for now. The whiteboard was clean. Foreman was off somewhere doing whatever it was Foreman did when he wasn't irritating her. Chase was off somewhere, doing his best to avoid another of her rebukes. Sex with him had been exciting, a release, a fantastic diversion to the everyday go-to-work-go-home existence. But that's all it was, and a bed partner was all he would ever be, no matter how much he yearned fortheheart and soul of her.

_Forget it._

Yes, they were done for now. So why was she making this great show of gathering file folders, empty coffee cups, pens, legal pads, and not even considering heading to the cafeteria for her afternoon fruit plate?

_House._

He stood by the window, his back to her as he chatted on his cell. Occasionally he would turn, pace, and throw her a knowing look, his voice going low, rough, his words indiscernible. A smile played at the corner of his lips, a gruff little laugh escaped him once, then again.

She glanced at the wall clock and realized she hadn't moved for the last five minutes.

House was getting his jollies playing this game with her, forcing her to wonder just what he was saying and to whom. And as much as she didn't want to give a flying fuck about what he did, where he went, this woman he was marrying, she couldn't help herself.

House winked at her and she realized with grim certainty that her cheeks were burning.

_They must be crimson. How ridiculous must you look?_

She wanted to avert her eyes but her neck, her shoulders, her entire body seemed to be encased in an invisible block of cement. And he knew. Oh, he knew.

_Damn! _She shook herself free of her imaginary encasement, of his sensuous stare, and stood, forcing herself to turn away from him. Her gaze darted from the ceiling, to the floor, to that wall clock, ticking the time away. Breaths coming hot and quick, she grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

"Awww." He clicked his phone shut, tucked it into his front jeans pocket. "Leaving so soon?"

"You're an ass," she spat, frozen to the spot. "What could that poor woman have done that was so horrible to deserve you?" The moment she said it she wished she hadn't. She should be in the cafeteria right now, choking down blueberries and apple slices.

"So that's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem." With some reluctance, she returned to her seat.

"Sure you do." He lurched closer, cocking his head. "It's true what they say, you know."

"I don't know." Why was she even bothering...?

"Once you're off the market, you become three times more desirable to the opposite sex." He smirked. "Wow, looks like my standings must have just shot straight through the roof."

She gawped at him. "Oh my god, House. Just...stop."

"In case you're wondering, that was my mom on the phone, yakking about the big day." He moved closer still. "So happy her Greg's finally getting himself hitched."

Cameron rubbed a hand across her brow, down her cheek, wrenching her eyes from his. "Why should I care?"

"Well, you were straining so hard to hear, I thought your ears might just grow little legs and scoot on over."

"That's just plain stupid," she grumbled. "Even for you."

He seated himself on the corner of the table. "We-e-ell, I didn't want you to think I was cooing dirty love rhymes to the future missus," His gaze darkened, his tone going low and husky. "There's a time and a place for that..."

Cameron took a deep breath, her thoughts shifting to an all-nighter she had pulled last week. On a break from hashing over differential diagnoses with Foreman, she ambled into Pediatrics and found Myrna hard at work. The department had been short staffed that night and Myrna was filling in, caring for a newborn who inhaled meconium inside the womb and a preemie who nearly died the day before. Myrna glanced up briefly from her tasks, sharing a nod with Cameron, an implied 'hello'. She had recently become an RN, progressing from her former LPN status. She seemed diligent, dedicated but, in truth, pretty darn bland. She was one of those women who could melt into a crowd without being noticed, wander off and never be missed.

What the hell did House see in her?

"I-"

"What? he asked in a voice that was grit against satin. One brow quirked up. His lips parted slightly, forming that soft cutting smile, the tip of his tongue grazing the edge of his front teeth, eyes mocking her as they probed.

Damn him. He was enjoying this.

"You what?"

"I...wanted to congratulate you."

He scoffed. "No, you didn't."

"I...did." It had been months since she'd felt such a ridiculously strong attraction to him. Or maybe she had just repressed it. She managed to shift her gaze to her hands, which were moving restlessly over her thighs. _That's right, bite your tongue. Keep those eyes averted. Don't let on how, at this very moment, your panties are as moist as dew soaked grass._

"You just wanted to do the right thing." He snapped his fingers in her face, causing her to jerk her head up. Her gaze was snagged by his again before she could do anything about it.

House's subtle open mouthed grin transformed itself into a smirk. His gaze fell to her crotch and, like a caress, drifted along her breasts and neck before settling on her eyes again.

_He knows how wet you are._

"Thanks for the invite."

"De nada," he said carelessly. "Bring bubbles."

"What?"

"Rice makes a helluva mess."

"Oh." Her brow furrowed as she pondered this.

"Uh, ah, ah, nooo pouting." He clicked his tongue, twirled his cane. "You'll have fun, believe me, standing on the Town Hall steps next to your boy toy Chase, blowing bubbles in honor of the happy couple racing off to the reception." His forefinger traveled to his cheek and tap...tap...tapped his stubble. "Oooh, and maybe if we have some time, me and the missus will bop in somewhere for a quickie. Nothing more exciting than newlywed sex on the fly. But I don't have to tell you about lovin' on the run, do I?"

_Fuck you._

Her eyes were as moist as her panties.

He heaved a long, deep sigh and, like a diva at her final recital, drew a hand to his brow and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "Life goes on. Somehow you will muddle through without me."

She had no idea why she was still sitting here, dumbfounded, the sole passenger on this Tilt-A-Whirl of abuse. It was like watching a slow motion car wreck: twisted metal, mouths open in rictuses of fear and pain. Horrific, devastating. Yet...there was an odd beauty to this House inspired devastation, the way he teased, caressed, then _struck._ It was like watching a master at work. No wonder she couldn't look away.

"Thanks for your good wishes." His lips pursed in a semi smooch as he eased off the table and headed toward the door. "I'll pass them along to the little woman."

Something swirled in her gut. If she had to guess she would say it was the remnants of the tuna salad she downed about three hours ago. Having no desire to see it again, she took a few deep, shuddering breaths and shut her eyes against the intensifying nausea.

"And Cameron..."

Her eyes snapped open. Damn. He was still standing there, watching her. If she had known that-

"...lock up after you puke, will you?"

----------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'm sorry, Mom. I can't hear you."

Pressing a hand against her free ear, Myrna lowered her head and made her way across the living room to stand by the window.

Frannie Bromfeld, a woman who would never be in the running for Mother Of the Year, snorted on the other end of the phone. "You have a doctor for a husband. You should have him check your ears."

"Mom." Her hand clenched and unclenched. "I can't hear you because the guys who bought my furniture are here. They're taking the bed apart to move it out." A clank of metal against metal sounded as another part of the bed, the frame, she assumed, was being readied for transport.

_"Damn, you almost dropped that wrench on my foot again, Steve. You don't get your cut if you cripple me." _

The three men were loud in a good natured way, trading off marginally clean jokes, and sarcastic jibes. Slawson, the guy who had paid her the six hundred dollars cash for the bed and sofa, was a great bear of a man. With his barrel chest, thick black hair and beard, he reminded Myrna of Bluto from the Popeye cartoons. He was getting married soon too, he told her, and needed the furniture for his new apartment.

"Oh, so that's what all that banging is?"

Myrna cringed as her mother did the lip flap: the damnable _brrip_ sound she would make to emphasize her annoyance or consternation over anything that didn't float her boat.

"Yes." Myrna sighed. "And Mom, Greg's not my husband yet. Remember? We're getting married Saturday. Remember? The wedding you're coming to? _Saturday._"

"You _hope,_" Frannie said. "Men are fickle. They can change their mind in a second, an instant. _Ffft! _And he's gone. You didn't break your lease yet, Myrna, did you?"

"I'm getting married, Mom. Can't you be the least bit happy-?" Those unshed tears pricked the corners of her eyes: the tears that had remained bottled up since she left home. Although, at any moment this could change. Her composure was pretty close to being shaken, the floodgates perilously close to lifting. "God _damn!" _

"Myrna." Frannie squeaked as if she'd been goosed. "you're as bad as your brother with that language-"

"You call me at the same time every day to give me a hard time about...something." Myrna silently cursed the tremor in her voice. She pressed her forehead against the window and watched two girls racing toward the swing set in the playground. "I've got a lot to do, a lot to think about..."

"Think about the fact that your brother is turning into a _shvartzer._"

The latest wrinkle in the Georgie saga was that he hung around with black boys, blasted rap music and cursed incessantly.

"Talk english, Mom," Myrna grumbled. "You're in America."

"I can throw a little Yiddish in here and there, if I so please."

Her mother's voice was grating. Tiny dots of pain rode atop each of her jibes and complaints, supplanting themselves inside Myrna's head, making her temples throb, the back of her neck ache.

"Speaking Yiddish is part of our tradition, Myrna," Frannie continued. "Remember when you were little and you made it a point to learn a new Yiddish word every day?"

"I was five."

"There is something to be said for staying true to your roots, who you are, where you come from." Silence. Myrna had the urge to click off, stuff the phone in her purse and ignore its ringing for the rest of the day. "This is something you have not considered in planning this marriage of yours."

_Change the goddamn subject..._

"What's going on with Georgie?" Myrna didn't really want to talk about her brother. He would always be the knife twist in his mother's side, a pain no drug could ease. But it was the best way to get her mother's mind off the wedding. For Frannie, complaining about Georgie was so much more fulfilling than bitching about Myrna's impending non-sectarian nuptials.

"Same thing as last time and the time before that." First came the _ffft_, followed by a healthy dose of _brrip. _"He plays that jungle music day and night, talks like he's from the worst part of the ghetto."

"He's just a kid, Mom." The girls had finished on the swings and were now chasing one another, playing a lively game of tag. "He wants to fit in."

"He wants to fit in with trash? _Brrip!_ I didn't raise either of you to be friends with trash-"

Footsteps clomped behind her, making the floorboards creak. Grateful for the distraction, Myrna turned to see two of the guys hauling out the box spring. Slawson carried rods from the bed frame under his arm. "We won't be much longer, Ms. Bromfeld." He touched the brim of his cap and followed the others out the door.

"I'd better go, Mom," Myrna paced the length of the living room, her eyes falling on the space where the sofa once lived. She felt a twinge of regret. She had liked that sofa. But she liked Greg's too. "I've got some things to do-"

"We'll be there Thursday, if I can drag George out of the ghetto."

"Yeah, okay."

"You made reservations at the Princeton Sheraton?"

"Yes," Myrna was certain that one day she would simply lose her mind and go off the deep end. And when it happened...look out. Nearly two decades worth of frustration would come pouring out of her and it wouldn't be a pretty sight. To start the show (and she could picture her eyes bugging out, her cheeks ablaze) she would call her mother a doddering, racist, memory challenged old fool, and then go on from there. But the show was still in the planning stages. It wouldn't be opening anytime soon. "I told you I made the reservations when we spoke...yesterday. Remember?"

"I hope it's a safe place and that it's clean." Frannie's tone softened, as though she were trying to soothe herself. "I'm sure it's safe and clean."

Her mother rarely left the house. Trips to the supermarket and Wal-Mart were considered major outings. So getting her to pack a bag and drag Georgie with her on a plane was quite a feat. Myrna was still not convinced it was going to happen. And at this point, she would almost rather the two of them stay put.

Myrna licked her lower lip, took a chance. "Hey, if you'd rather stay home, Mom, I'll understand."

"Why would you say that?"

"You just sounded kind of unsure."

Silence reigned. _Frannie must be thinking._

"Is that so?" Frannie replied cautiously.

_Oh, don't think, Mom. Don't-_

"Don't you want your mother at your wedding?"

Myrna sighed. "Of _course_-"

"Then why would you-?"

"Why are you so set against this?" Myrna could picture her mother's face, mouth turned down into that frown that made her look a little like a half decomposed jack-o-lantern. "You haven't said one positive word about my wedding. Nothing. Not even that you're looking forward to it."

"It's not that I'm against this, Myrna. But how can I look forward to your getting married?" she asked. "I don't even know the man you so quickly decided was right for you."

"It' s been six months, Mom. And he wants to be with me." She didn't want to say 'you'll like him', since odds were she would not. "We're...good together. Isn't that what counts?"

"I don't know what that means. Good together. What happened to 'I love him, I need him. He is the apple of my eye?'"

Myrna swallowed against some lumpish thing that had taken residence in her throat. She did love Greg, very much, which is why she couldn't say it to her mother. It would be exposing a vulnerability, a weakness she preferred Frannie not see. Ever. "Good together means...exactly what it says."

"I don't understand you, Myrna." Frannie sniffed and Myrna could tell the waterworks were seconds away. "I just-"

"Gotta go, Mom." Myrna's thumb hovered over the cell's 'end' key. "The guys are back for the mattress."

_Oooh, liar_.

They were not.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow." Her thumb depressed the key and it was like a weight had been released from her shoulder. She imagined a huge granite block drifting from her body and out the window into the playground: a climbing rock for the kids to play on. Call it _Myrna's Burden_.

Her body sagged with relief as she sank to the floor by the window. She considered allowing herself a good cry or at least a couple of healthy sobs. But as soon as the guys were finished here, she would head off to Greg's. She loved his place. Those shadow strewn walls, the stacks of books and records, odd little knick-knacks lining his shelves, that comfortable leather sofa and the even more inviting bed made her feel secure, tucked safely away inside a hidden cove. Soon she would be living there. It would be her place too. Her mail would be in the box next to Greg's. These were not unrealized hopes and dreams. They were facts, and facts made her feel better.

She was getting married. That was a fact too. A real cool one, as Greg would say.

So really...what did she have to cry about?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day had gone fairly well. There were a couple of marginally interesting cases-one that had actually turned out to be Lupus. But the other, a much more troublesome heart, tumor, meningitis thing, would keep his team busy through the night. When seven o' clock rolled around, House took off. As it is he stayed two hours longer than he had planned, plowing through differential diagnoses with the three of them, sending them off to run tests.

All the while he made no secret of how much he was enjoying Cameron's emotional distress: like images in a flip book, her expression changed from moment to moment...from haughtiness to anger to frustration to...sadness.

_Not your fault, boss._

No, it wasn't his fault she was pining away for something she thought she'd lost, something that had never really been hers in the first place.

Stepping into his apartment, he tossed his mail on the computer desk, stopped, then slowly lifted his head. Like an animal sniffing out a scent, his nostrils flared. _Oh, yeah._ A corner of his mouth lifted as he made his way to the bedroom.

He stood in the doorway, leaned on his cane and cocked his head at the woman in his bed. She was curled up, ensconced deep in his comforter, fast asleep.

_Yeah, take it in, old man. Breathe it in. You think it's some kind of dream? Like the ones that seem so damn real they make real life pale in comparison. It's not though, is it? There she is, luscious Myrna, yours for the ravaging. Sex and love are wonderful, eh? Who ever thought they would cross your path again? But don't worry, you'll find some way to fuck this whole thing up. Two years at the most. Two years..._

Her scent was a light floral bouquet (a powder? cologne? body wash?) and some other aroma that was distinctively her own. That scent lingered, stayed with him. He liked the fact he could smell her on himself the morning after they'd slept together. That was...

_...cool._

He approached the bed and, with the tip of his cane, inched the comforter off her feet. She murmured, shifted and flopped onto her stomach, but didn't awaken. She was a sound sleeper; his snoring never seemed to wake her, with was another point in her favor.

House nosed the cane under the comforter and let it travel slow-ly up the length of her left calf.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Mmmph."

With one smooth swipe of the cane, the comforter was off her, tossed to the hardwood in a heap.

"I asked you a question."

"Huh?"

She wore a t-shirt, panties and nothing else. The cane was hungry, like a sniffing hound it made its way over the rise of her backside to lift the edge of her shirt. The sight of the lovely white skin, the memory of the satiny feel of her made him hard. He drew in a breath and narrowed his eyes.

"Answer me."

She hitched herself up on one elbow, eyes heavy with sleep. Her hair fell around her face, brushing against her cheeks, strands of it settling on her lips. She tossed back those tresses with a shake of her head and two languid swipes of her hand.

"The bed sold. The sofa too, Greg. I figured-"

"So you figured you could just barge in here and make yourself at home."

"I did." A hint of a smile tugged at her lips.

"You think it's funny?"

With some effort, she packed the smile away. "Nooo."

"It's not funny, is it?"

"No." Her bottom lip jutted out.

"Do you know why?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then say it."

Hanging her head, she muttered, "I'm...bad."

"I can't hear you." He drew closer and set the cane's tip beneath her chin. With gentle pressure he forced her head up.

"I said...I'm bad."

"Yes. Muy malo." He lowered the cane, but continued to hold her gaze.

The game had begun.

He traced one finger along her V-neck collar. "Take off your shirt."

"Do it for me," she whispered.

"No. You'll do it." His voice deepened to a husky growl. "You're bad."

Myrna smirked as she pulled the shirt over her head. He frowned and raised a brow as he took her in. He loved her breasts. They were not perfect. They sagged a bit. Their nipples, large, pink and erect, pointed southward. He liked that. They filled both of his hands with their heat, their fullness. He enjoyed the way they jiggled beneath her flimsy t-shirt when she walked braless through his rooms. Fondling them was a true pleasure as was letting his lips and tongue play around their areolas. He realized he wanted her _now_. Wanted to sink inside her and ride, ride, ride. Not yet though. Not yet.

_The game..._

Myrna's smirk broadened into a wicked, anticipatory grin as House opened the drawer of the nightstand.

"Talk to your mother today?" House's tone was nonchalant as he removed a pair of velvet handcuffs from the drawer. He dangled them before her and watched her hungry, goggle eyed gaze follow their motion.

"Yes," she told him, her tone both breathless and sad.

"You shouldn't bother with her until you absolutely have to." He ran the soft black velvet up and down her thigh, over her stomach, across her breasts. "She upsets you." His other hand tugged at her panties. She shuddered, then arched her body so he could remove them. He slipped them down around her legs, then off, twirling them around his forefinger before tossing them to the floor. "I don't like that."

"What do you like?"

"You know what I like. Lift your arms."

She raised her arms over her head, as House leaned over her, feeling her warmth, taking in that scent. Yes, she knew what he liked. She had, after all, introduced him to the joys of kink-lite. Nothing too outrageous, just a bit of spice to 'lively up themselves', as Bob Marley might have said. He slipped the cuffs over her wrists and secured their pink chain over and around the knobbed edge of the headboard.

"You were bad," he told her grimly.

"I know."

"There are consequences."

His hands floated over her breasts, his thumbs grazing their fullness, moving up and around and down, slowly at first, then using his fingers to form wonderfully intricate patterns over her nipples, her stomach, moving lower, lower...

_(delicious friction)_

...speeding up and slowing down to join the rhythm of Myrna's writhes and moans.

He slid two fingers into her wet, wonderful center, smiling as she bucked and groaned her assent.

His breathing quickened, scrotum tightening. He _wanted _her. "Did you know...I can see the future?"

"Oh?" she gasped.

"Mmm, like for instance." He kept up with the steadily intensifying rhythm, matching her beat for beat. "I know that when I count backwards from three to one, you will come."

"Nooo," she moaned. "Uh, uh."

"You will."

"Nooo."

"I guarantee it."

"You wish..."

"Three..." He allowed his thumb to lightly move over and around the slippery swell of her clit as his fingers slid deeper...and deeper.

"Ah!" Her arms strained against her restraints as her fists clenched. The pretty pink chain jangled merrily, a tuneful little tribute to her arousal. The lower half of her seemed to have discovered a life of its own, hips rolling, rocking, _dancing,_ as she barreled hard toward that place...

"...two..."

Eyes shut tight, she whipped down the final turn, her muscles tensing around his fingers, imprisoning them inside that mass of sticky, hot caramel, that thick, warm cream.

"...one..."

"_Oooh! Ohhhhh!" _Her hips arched, grinding and thrusting three...four...five times against his hand before collapsing with a _whump _onto the mattress.

House snickered, oddly sated. "Told you. I see all and know all." Gently, he removed his fingers from her and brought them to his lips, touching the tip of his tongue to each one, enjoying the yeasty goodness of her.

"Oh! Damn you." Her chest heaved as she rolled her head against her shoulders. As her breathing slowed and her head sank into her pillow, House released her hands from their bonds.

"That's not nice," he said.

"You deserved it." She smirked. "_You're_ bad."

"You know, not only can I tell the future..." His brow furrowed as he turned the cuffs over, scrutinizing them like they were an artifact from Jupiter. "...but I'm a mind reader as well." He returned the cuffs to the drawer.

"Oh, yeah?"

"I see a man." He placed one hand against his brow as he grabbed his cane from where it rested by the nightstand. "Dark hair, dark beard." He wandered the length of the room. "Damn if he doesn't look like Bluto from the Popeye cartoons."

His back was to Myrna now. He didn't need to look at her to know her mouth was agape, her eyes as big and round as saucers. "His name is..." He spun around, _thwacked_ a chair leg for effect. "...Slawson."

"Greg." Her tone was quietly suspicious. "What the hell-"

"_I _bought the bed and the sofa. Slawson's a bartender I know. He gave you the money I gave him, less the two hundred for his trouble, then he carted the stuff off to Goodwill."

She shook her head. "You really had me going there for a minute."

"I'm damn good." He laughed. "Never forget it."

"I don't understand why you went to all that trouble"

House shrugged and turned toward the door. "I...missed you."

"You know," she called after him. "you could have just...told me. I would have stayed here."

"There's something to be said for pulling a cool caper." He heard her rustling around behind him, most likely searching for her clothes. "You'd better get some sleep."

"Hey. Hold on sailor."

He knew what that seductive, anticipatory tone meant, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicions. Still naked, Myrna lifted one leg and threw him a naughty, crooked grin A pair of gold studded leather restraints dangled from two of her fingers, while her other hand moved over her form, like a game show model displaying the latest super boffo prize.

"It's your turn." Myrna cooed, tilting her head, waiting. "You've been very, very bad."

He was already working on unbuckling his belt as he sauntered back to bed.

_Damn! This one is definitely too good for the likes of you. Let's give it two years before you screw up so badly she'll never want to see you again. Hell, alright...three... _

_...if you're lucky._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone for reading, and to NaiveEve for her brilliant beta work.

**Disclaimer:** House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-4-**

_You always were a cheap ass son of a bitch..._

His fingers were like courageous Marine pilots, honing in on their target with practiced ease before zooming down, down, down to make the kill. Their target in this case was a bag of hot, fresh pretzel bites. Master Sergeant Thumb and Lieutenant Forefinger closed in, dug deep and snatched two of the soft doughy chunks from Wilson's bag.

_Semper fi, do or die._

"House!"

House stuffed them into his face, grinning and scrunching his nose as he chewed, his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk. He swallowed, then took three long sips of his drink.

At Wilson's suggestion, they took a trek to the mall for lunch. After purchasing food from the food court they seated themselves on a bench in the center of the action. House downed a hot dog and was working on an Orange Julius but the whole time his mind was on those pretzels. They were really much too tempting to ignore. Before lunchtime was over, he decided, they would be his.

"You're pathetic," Wilson grumped, rolling down the top of the paper bag and securing it firmly next to his left buttock.

"Gimme." House made a grabbing motion at the bag.

"No, get your own." With lightning speed, Wilson reached in, grabbed a bite and popped it in his mouth.

"Damn, if they had an Olympic event for pretzel snatching you'd be gold medal material."

Hunching protectively over his bounty, Wilson folded the bag closed again. He reminded House of a little old lady hovering over her purse.

"Stingy pretzel dude." House pouted, glared at him and bumped the tip of his cane against the floor. "See where that gets you next time I buy a snack."

"That's an empty threat, seeing as how you never dig deep for anything."

"There's always that golden first time." House let his gaze wander over the neon signs above the storefronts, the window shopping retirees, the girls and guys trying hard to look cool and _bad_ as they leaned against the balcony railing, weary moms pushing sleepy toddlers off to lunch and naptime.

"Why were you so horrible to Cameron yesterday?" Wilson asked.

House exhaled softly and stretched his feet out. "Who said I was horrible to her?"

"Don't give me any of that." Wilson's narrowed his eyes. "By now even the cleaning crew's got the transcript of that little altercation."

The muzak version of "Dancing Queen" was infectious. House hummed along as he studied the shadows shifting across the ceiling.

"I asked you-"

"She had it coming, okay?" he yelled, his gaze whipping toward Wilson. "Always being so whiny and defensive. Claiming she was over me." "Ha!"

"You are unbelievable."

"Do we have to talk about this now?"

"No." Wilson's fingers tapped against the bench in an edgy staccato beat. "No. I guess not."

"Good."

After taking another long slurp of his drink, House announced, "And you know what? The mall sucks."

"What does that have to do with-"

"What other place do you know that so blatantly promotes depravity, avarice and greed." He jabbed his cane at the _Hot Topic_ boutique across the way. "Look at that place. God! It's just chock full of black shrouded goth kids who skulk in corners, scribble poetry on their hands and listen to Joy Division..." Waggling a finger in Wilson's face, he went on. "...not because they like it. But because it pisses off their parents."

"Don't give me any of that pompous crap." Wilson couldn't seem to stifle a smile now. "You love it here. You're just grumpy because the nubile nymphette population has so far been nil."

"You're right. I should file a complaint."

"Don't bother. You'll be married soon."

_Yeah._

House gazed down the length of the mall's seemingly infinite second floor, enjoying the movement of the shoppers, how their chatter and the muzak seemed to merge, drift up to the rafters and...vanish as...

...a most welcome image of Myrna interrupted his reverie. She floated above him, her eyes huge in the half light as she scrutinized him, one bra strap hanging carelessly off her shoulder, her hair tickling his chest as she moved down...down...

His grin broadened, slowly, languidly...

...which caused Wilson to gape at him in befuddled wonder.

"My god."

"What?" With a sharp intake of breath, House forced himself back to the present.

"I have never seen you look so...goofy."

He smirked at Wilson's bemusement, reaching over to snag the pretzel bag. "Ha!" House studied the contents of the grease dotted sack, taking great care in selecting his prize.

"You really are in love," Wilson said softly.

"Temporary insanity." Rolling the pretzel nugget between two fingers, he sniggered. "Don't worry. I'll come to my senses in four or five years. Inevitably I'll do something so thoughtless, heedless and evil it will mangle the relationship beyond repair." He tossed back his head and dropped the treat into his mouth. "Then I'll come live with you."

"No thanks."

"Who else is going to remind me to send out those alimony checks?"

Wilson stood. "Come on, we should at least start looking around."

"I don't see why we have to do this."

Setting his hands on his hips, Wilson rolled his eyes. "You need to buy a present for your bride," he said slowly, enunciating each word as if speaking to a child.

"Whatever I buy is going to pale in comparison to what she already has," he said, jabbing his thumbs at his chest. "You can't put a price on _this._"

Wilson snatched the pretzel bag from House's lap. "Ha!"

"Hey...no fair stealing from a cripple." House stood and lurched alongside Wilson. "She liked you, by the way. Thought you were cute." He arched a brow. "If she keeps on about it, I may just have to kill you in your sleep."

Wilson laughed, before polishing off another pretzel. "Don't worry, she's much too good for me, and way, way out of your league." He sniffed the air. "I still can't figure what she sees in you, unless...yes, it must be that cologne you're wearing."

"Don't dis the scent." House threw Wilson a warning look, while grabbing the pretzel bag out of his hand. "Myrna picked it out."

"Oooh," Wilson cooed. "_Myrna picked it out_. I never thought I'd see the day again-"

"Shut up."

They took the next right and headed into a Hallmark store. House wandered down the center aisle, shoving the nearly empty pretzel bag into his jacket pocket. He scanned the greeting cards, slowing to a stop in front of one with a cow on it. The cow's mouth was open, its pink tongue lolling, its brown eyes staring. _Interesting._ Those liquid brown orbs looked like two enormous chocolate drops. He liked them. Giggling like a five year old, he snagged the card and opened it. It mooed at him. _Ah! _He closed it, waited, opened it again. _Moo! _Again. _Moo! _

Inside the card, the legend '_Happy Moo-ving_ _Day' _was wrapped in a cartoon bubble over Bossie's head. "Perfect," House shouted, causing a clerk to glance up from her dusting and toss him an acid glare.

He found Wilson at the rear of the store, perusing the delicate crystal and porcelain knick knacks behind a locked glass case. "This...is perfect." He handed Wilson the card.

"What is it?"

"Open it."

The moo sound carried the length of the store, causing the clerk to click her tongue and frown again.

"Fan_tas_tic, huh?"

"You're not thinking of giving this to Myrna, are you?"

"No, I'm giving it to Prince Harry when he finally flies the coop," he snarled. "Of course I'm giving it to Myrna." House opened his hand to receive the card. "Nothing but the best for my girl."

Stifling a laugh, Wilson slapped the card into House's palm. Aghast, House stared at his prize before throwing Wilson a pained look. "Careful with that. It's the only one they had."

"I can't imagine why." Wilson waved the clerk over. "Miss, could we get some help here?"

Acid Glare set her duster down and hurried over, her bright white sneakers making little _shush, shush_ sounds against the carpet. "Yes sir."

"My friend here is getting married." Wilson donned his most charming grin and set his hand on House's shoulder. "And he is looking for a present for his bride."

The woman's silver blond hair shimmered beneath the fluorescents. She pressed her hands together, the romance of her task lending a luster to her eyes, a glow to her cheeks. Her pink lips parted in a way that said, 'oh, if only I were thirty years younger'.

House offered her a thin smile while hiding the card behind his back.

"So you are the groom," she sighed happily.

House flipped the card open... pursing his lips in sync with the...

_Moooooo!_

Acid Glare blinked; her jaw clenched. House could almost see the smoke pouring from her ears as her gaze slid toward Wilson. "You did say _this _is the groom?"

"I'm afraid so, ma'am. As you can see..." He glowered at House and the venom in his eyes could have poisoned the entire population of Princeton. "...he needs all the help he can get."

"Well, then, let's see what we have." She opened the case and showed them:

A crystal angel embracing a heart.

A Hummel bride and groom.

A porcelain figurine of Eros.

Wilson seemed impressed by the array, oohing over the angel, tilting his head and smiling at the bride and groom, and sighing over Eros.

"House, what do you think?" Wilson asked, nearly breathless.

But House was otherwise engaged, peering inside a small flap of the card, attempting to find the sound chip.

"House."

He snapped his head up. "Let's go."

"You don't like any of these?" Wilson asked.

"No."

Wilson swapped an incredulous look with Acid Glare, but House was already on his way to the cash register to purchase his moo-ving day card.

On their ride back to work, House made Wilson stop at _Private Peccadilloes. _Located just off the main road, it wasan establishment the size of a one room shack, with black windows and pink day-glo lettering above the door.

Wilson waited in the car while House purchased three penis shaped all day suckers (with cherry flavored testicles), orange creme warming gel, a pack of French Ticklers, and a t-shirt that read _Doctors Know How To Stick It Good._

Wilson winced as House returned. "How sticky was the floor in there?"

"It wasn't...that sticky."

"What did you get?"

House smiled and held the bag to his chest in a tender embrace. "Presents for my bride."

_--------------------------------------------------------------_

"How was lunch?"

Wilson pulled his scrip pad from his middle drawer, then uncapped his pen. "Interesting," he said, beginning to write.

"Did he find her a gift?"

"Gifts. Penis shaped candy, exotic condoms, heated lubricating gel, and a funny ha, ha t-shirt."

"Charming."

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing. Everything."

Cuddy sighed. "You're going to have to get him shitfaced."

With a slow shake of his head, Wilson put his pen down and raised his eyes to meet hers. He prided himself on his patience but right now it was on mighty slippery ground.

He was writing a Fentanyl scrip for Mr. Glibstern. Gilbert Glibstern was probably, at this very minute, in the passenger seat of his nephew's Lincoln Continental, going on about the raw deal life had handed him. Wilson hoped they were stuck in traffic since, from the looks of things, the Glibstern cancer issue was going to have to wait its turn. Cuddy had an issue of another sort.

"You have to get him absolutely sloshed." Her cleavage was especially...interesting today, pushing up proudly from her lacy black top; three pounds of bologna in a two pound bag is how his mother might have looked at it.

"I didn't have much notice, Lisa. I couldn't plan anything." He tapped the tip of his pen against his appointment book. "I figured I would just take him for a drink, give him the congratulatory, best buddy handshake-"

"You have to do better than that." Her blue eyes flashed her anger.

"What the hell is _wrong?_"

She pulled up a chair, gripping the armrests as she eased herself onto the seat cushion. She straightened her form fitting skirt, her lips tightening as she hitched the chair closer to the desk.

"House doesn't _do_ marriage."

Wilson snorted. "Well, obviously he does...he is...he_ will."_

"No." She shook a finger at him, arching a brow. "He has an ulterior motive."

"Like what?" He finished scribbling out the scrip and shoved it to one side. "Like maybe Myrna's an illegal alien who wants to stay in this country and offered House three million dollars to marry her?"

"Yeah." Cuddy nodded, saucer eyed, looking like a crazed bobble head doll. "See? You get it."

"No. You know as well as I do, Myrna is not from Paraguay or Brazil or Greece or...wherever. She's worked here long enough-"

"That means _nothing!"_

"Calm down."

Cuddy glanced at her shoes and folded her hands in her lap before meeting Wilson's eyes again. "Sorry."

"Alright." Wilson rocked back in his chair and folded his arms. "You tell me then. What is so terrible about this?"

"He doesn't even know her."

Wilson tossed her a sly grin. "Oh, he knows her alright."

"Stop being glib. I mean _really_ know her-and not in the biblical sense."

"Why should that matter to you so much?" he asked.

"It's just...not right."

"You know what your problem is?" He leaned forward, smile widening, brows lifting. "He's done something behind your back, completely flummoxing you. You had absolutely no idea what he was up to, and it's killing you. But then..." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "...it's not like that's something new."

"You didn't know about it either," she said softly.

"That's true." The fact that House had hid something this monumental from everyone, in no way amazed Wilson. House was an expert at deceit, at hiding the truth when it suited him, giving it up only when the moment was right. It was House's call in House's world.

"Did you talk with him?"

Wilson sighed. "Yeah, he says he's 'in love'."

"Now I know he's hiding something."

"I...really don't think he is."

Drumming her red lacquered nails against the armrests, she snorted. "And what would make you say that?"

"At lunch he was definitely in...lala land. I know the look. Been there, done that." He shifted some papers from one side of his desk to the other. "Plus, I...went to see Myrna yesterday."_  
_

_"No...," _Cuddy breathed. "You just showed up at her place?"

"Yep. And I have to tell you, she was great, funny and down to earth." He watched Cuddy's frown deepen. "Not what you were waiting to hear, I gather."

She waved at him to continue.

"I think she _gets_ him" He steepled his fingers under his chin. "That could actually be...good."

"So you approve of this?" she asked, incredulous.

"Who am I to disapprove?"

"You're only his best friend."

"When has that ever mattered?" Wilson's smiled a melancholy smile. "If he sets his mind to something, it's going to play out, regardless of what I say."

She eased forward, that black hole of cleavage a mere arm's length away. "Did you know he made Cameron cry yesterday?"

He threw her a dismissive wave. "That's old news."

"From what she said, he was incredibly cruel."

Wilson snickered and ran one hand through his hair. "House says she brought it on herself, wearing her heart on her sleeve all these years." He shrugged. "It was bound to happen. And when House gets the upper hand in something like this, he sure as hell is going to-"

"Stop." She waved her hands at him. "Don't say another word." With a tilt of her head, she tossed him a sardonic grin, and asked, "Are you listening to yourself?"

"What now?"

"Anything he does is okay. It doesn't matter if he makes his employee cry or if he marries a nurse on a whim."

He lifted his hands to protest. "Woah. I don't think it's a wh-"

"You...are not helping the situation by sitting back and making believe everything is simply wonderful."

"Why is this your business?"

"Because it affects everyone here, whether you think so or not." She threw her hands up, tossed her head back, as if beseeching the ceiling for help. "I have known Greg House since college, kept track of him through hospitals hiring him and hospitals firing him. I brought him here when no one else would have him." She paused, set her gaze on Wilson, and let out a shaky breath. "I know him. I know how he is. He has a hard time bouncing back from things." She set one hand gently on the edge of the desk.. "I didn't think he'd ever get over Stacy. You didn't either."

"So you're saying he shouldn't ever take a chance on a relationship again?"

"No. That's not what I'm saying at all."

"It sure sounds like it."

"I'm just saying we have to look out for him before he hurts himself and this woman." She pushed herself out of her seat, smoothing her skirt as she stood. "If this doesn't work out, I'm going to have two exceedingly depressed, despondent medical professionals on my hands. And that I don't need."

_"You_ don't need it?" Wilson stood, his eyes going wide. "This is not about _you_."

She glowered. "He's already hurt Cameron."

"You know what?" Wilson threw her a crooked grin. "_Everyone_ is going to have to get over it," He shook a finger at her. "Including you. _And_ Cameron."

"We're taking Myrna for dinner and drinks...lots of drinks...tomorrow night." She stared at him hard. "We're doing our part. Why can't you do yours?"

"_Doing your part? _What is this, a charity drive?"

Her look was an entreaty. "Just take House out. Get Chase and Foreman to go along. Get him drunk enough so that he spills his guts to you. That shouldn't be so difficult."

Wilson pondered this for a moment. "Okay, just suppose I do it."

Her lips curled into a tentative, hopeful grin.

"And what if...what if what House says when he's drunk corresponds with what he says when he's sober?"

Cuddy's face fell. "I doubt that will happen," she murmured.

"Ha! See? You're not so sure."

"Humor me. Just do it."

Wilson exhaled softly and gave a resigned nod. "Fine."

There were voices in the corridor. Someone wheezed then shot out a multitude of diatribes to some unlucky recipient.

"Why, it sounds like Mr. Glibstern has arrived." Gritting his teeth, Wilson pulled a file folder from beneath his paperwork and slapped it down next to the scrip. "The bright spot of my day."

"Good luck," Cuddy said as she turned toward the door. "Oh, and James..."

"Hmm?" He threw open the folder and raised his head.

"Make sure to choose a designated driver."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **In case anyone needs clarification, here is Wikipedia's definition of a French Tickler :

A **French Tickler** is a latex condom that is designed with additional protrusions, for enhancing the sexual pleasure of the user.

A typical French Tickler uses a number of bumps, crests and falls in the lining of the latex ostensibly to make sexual intercourse more enjoyable or pleasurable for the recipient.

Hope that helps.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Thanks: **to NaiveEve for the beta!

**-5-**

He watched her.

Busy with so many things, she didn't even feel his eyes on her. At least he didn't think she did.

_Hell, she could be as cagey as you, pretending her attention was on her work but, from the corner of her eye, she was watching you... making damn sure you noticed her._

But then, that wasn't Myrna. If she was busy, she was busy. She was the only woman he knew who had her own agenda and stuck to it.

She had been through every room in his (their!) apartment at least twice since he arrived home thirty minutes earlier. They said their hellos...fell into an embrace, a lingering kiss; the sort of greeting that hadn't gone the way of all men...yet. He set up the Chinese take out on the coffee table and switched on the TV. The sound of her purposeful footsteps moving across the hardwood floors was making him weary. He didn't know where she found her energy. A few moments ago she had arranged a stack of her treasured books on a shelf of his (their!) bookshelf. Now she was off in another room doing...something else.

He changed the channel and tried to think about other things.

The day's caseload had been easy. Only one patient had given his team any sort of challenge: a fifty seven year old woman with a heart ailment. After running a myriad of tests, it hadn't been too difficult to work out a diagnosis of viral cardiomyopathy, even with Cameron getting all pissy and obstinate every damn time he asked her a question. She would have to learn to can the dramatics, keep those lame personal feelings out of her professional life or there really would be hell to pay.

Then it was save a life, sign out, go home, have some dinner. It was all in a day's work. He ate a forkful of fried rice and watched a recap of the day's Met's game. From the other room came more steps, the clinking of glass, the sound of water running. He stirred his rice, downed another forkful.

What the hell was she doing in there?

The can of beer was cool against his lips. He took a swig then banged the can on the table. "Yo!" he shouted. When there was no response, he pressed the mute key on the remote and...listened. He heard the medicine cabinet squeak shut.

"Yo!"

Myrna padded out of the bathroom while tying her hair back with an elastic. "What's up?"

"What are you doing?"

"Putting my stuff away."

"What stuff?"

"Toiletries. Girl stuff."

He ran his eyes over her, his expression somber. "Girl stuff."

She shook her head, folded her arms. "Don't...start, Greg."

He tossed out an expression of boyish innocence, knowing it was his most effective look. "What'd I do?"

"It's not what you did," she told him with a small smile. "It's what you're _thinking_ of doing."

"Oh, so now you're a mind reader."

"I learned that particular talent from you."

His thoughts flew to his caper with Slawson, _The Bargain News, _and the bed. He was mighty proud of that one.

Sighing, Myrna continued. "I've got stuff to do and then I really have to try to get some sleep before I go to work."

"Why did you bring those boxes today?" He gestured toward three cardboard cartons in the hallway. "That's what I'm paying movers to do on Thursday."

"It's just a few things. Stuff I need." She threw up her hands, then let them fall to her sides. "There's a lot more, believe me."

He pointed the fork at her. "Your doing this is cutting into our time."

"Our time?" Her mouth fell open as she huffed out a surprised laugh. "You're the one who said you wouldn't always have time for me."

"Mmm, yeah, well..." House's top teeth grazed his lower lip. "...I lied."

"That'll change, I'm sure." Laughing, she waved at him dismissively and turned back toward the bathroom.

He gave her just enough time start her rearranging and sorting again. Just...enough...time. After a silent backwards ten count, he threw his head back and yelled, "_YO!"_

"Alright." She stomped back into the living room and stood over him. "What?"

"Your food is getting cold."

"I told you I would bring some with me to work." She eyed him suspiciously. "Anything...else?"

He set the fork down and picked up his beer. "Wilson was under the impression that I needed to buy you a present."

"And why would you _need_ to do that?"

The beer can was gradually warming in his hands, a sheen of condensation dampening his palms. "Wilson says it's what you do when you get married."

"Really."

"Really. He would know, having been there and done that multiple times."

They were silent, staring, almost daring each other not to laugh.

"So-ooo," House said, setting his beer next to his container of rice. "I got you a present. More than one actually."

"Well, now, this is so romantic." She smirked. "I can hardly catch my breath."

"Sit."

She sat next to him, giving a little expectant bounce before settling back into the cushion.

He reached over his armrest, picking up the pink plastic bag and an envelope off the floor. Smiling, he handed her the bag.

"_Personal Peccadilloes? _She hefted the bag in both hands before setting it on her lap._ "_Wow, Greg. Such a high class emporium. How charming," she said, wrinkling her nose. "But I would expect nothing less from a discriminating shopper such as yourself."

"Open this first." He handed her the envelope.

"What's this?"

"Open it!"

"Ohhhh-kay." Her brows lifted as she tore open the paper and pulled out the card. "Why, it's a cow."

"It moos."

"That's right," she said slowly, as if talking to a child. "That's what cows do."

"No," he told her. "I mean it-"

She opened the card.

_Moooo._

"-really moos. See?"

She squealed, then slapped one hand over her mouth as she leaned forward and dissolved into a fit of silent hysterics.

House sat back, narrowing his eyes, watching her shoulders shake. The harder she laughed, the less sound came out. Occasionally a tiny peep would escape her, a signal she should seep in a breath and start again.

"It's funny but...not that funny," he told her as she sucked in a bit more air.

"Oh my god, yes it is," she said. "_Moo-ving _day. I love it." She sat back and scrubbed her palms against her damp cheeks.

"Here." He handed her a napkin. "You're a mess."

"Gee, thanks." She sighed and dabbed her eyes. "Now," she said, peering into the bag. "What's this present?"

"Presents."

"Ooooh, lovely stuff! Penis pops." She held them up to the light. One was green, one yellow, one red." Running a finger down the red shaft, she eyed House seductively, running her tongue over her lower lip. "They all have pink balls." Gently, she laid them out on the coffee table.

"Cherry." His throat went dry. He lifted his can of beer and took another swig.

"Yum." Digging deeper into the bag, she discovered the shirt. _"'Doctors Know How To Stick It Good'. _Why, whatever could _that_ mean?" She tossed it to the side and found the warming gel. "Ooooh, I definitely have plans for you." After planting a kiss on the little jar, she handed it to House. "Take special care of this, Greg. It's going to come in very handy."

Her eyes shone; her cheeks grew flushed. She radiated excitement, anticipation. It was a familiar prelude to how their time together had been playing out recently. Some talk, some food and the rest of the time spent in bed.

Sex was such a joy for her. It was like a fabulously intense amusement park ride that never got old; the thrill of it never seemed to wane. It didn't take a whole lot of goading to steer her thoughts into erotic mode. Right now, if he touched her, if he just brushed his fingers against her arm, she would grab his hand and lead him off to bed.

It was nice. Some would say he had really stepped in it this time.

_But what if, old man? What if?_

What if one day the little guy decided not to stand proud so often and with such gusto. He was getting to that age when Viagra might be a necessity and not just a playful option.

"I really am too old for you," he told her flatly. It wasn't the first time he had said so.

Myrna twisted her lips. She looked up from the _Peccadilloes _bag and fixed him with a glare. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No."

"Then why have you been handing me that same ridiculous line since we started sleeping together?" She smoothed her hand over the shiny pink plastic.

He lifted the beer can, studied the red and black writing, then put it down. "Because you have to seriously consider what you're getting into." As if to illustrate his point, he dug a bottle of Vicodin from his shirt pocket, popped the cap, then downed two pills. "These are a way of life. They are not going away. Either are the facts that I'm moody, egotistical and a cripple. I'll argue any point with you. I will drive you nuts and I won't really care." He capped the bottle, tucked it safely away again.

"And what did I tell you about those things?"

"It...doesn't matter what you told me. You haven't lived them yet."

She shrugged and got to her feet, still holding the bag. "I have things to do, Greg. I want to finish arranging the bathroom so my stuff doesn't get in the way of yours."

"That can wait..."

"No. It can't." Suddenly her face fell, like weariness had finally caught up with her. "I'd like to finish what I'm doing, then get a few hours sleep before work." She pressed her lips together, then added, "But if you'd like to join me for a romp, I'd be happy to accommodate you."

"You're tense."

"Ye-es. I'm getting married. A certain amount of tension goes along with that."

"Hmmm." He squinted at her and rubbed his palm against his ruined thigh. "Did you talk to your mother today?"

She exhaled heavily, like it was a major effort, and set one hand on her hip. "Of course."

"Why?"

"Because she called. And if I don't pick up she'll only call again later."

"She upsets you." House gazed past her to a spot on the wall where a picture used to be. Only the ghost of its hanger remained. "I don't like it."

"So you've told me...more than once." She took a step back, then stopped. "Unfortunately, like your Vicodin, Frannie is part of life."

"The difference here is Vicodin takes away pain, Frannie seems to bring it. She's intrusive, messing with your emotions and she hasn't even arrived yet. I see how you get after you talk with her." Tilting his head, he scrutinized her like she was a clinic patient. "All knotted up and wanting so badly to fight her. You can't though." He clicked his tongue. "You're too used to holding back..."

"Well, you and your dad have had your moments too."

"My dad has the good sense to pretty much stay out of my business these days." His gaze held hers as he drained the beer. "My mother's okay. I'm sure you two will have a good long chat on Saturday. She'll like you. Actually, he'll like you too. He'll just wonder who I bribed to land you."

Myrna opened her mouth to speak but House stopped her with a quirk of his chin. "There's one more gift for the bride in that obscenely pink bag."

"Ah." Peering inside, she nodded. "So there is..." Myrna reached in a pulled out a shiny black box. Slowly she opened the lid, her hazel eyes shimmering as they took in the contents. "French Ticklers," she breathed.

House rubbed his palm over his stubble, biting his lip to stifle the insanely silly grin struggling to break free. "You like?"

"You _know_ I do." Hefting her shoulders, she shook her head. "You said you never wanted to use condoms again."

Once monogamy had been established, the thought of using the exotic condoms she liked so much went out the window-basically because he was lazy. And being forced to wear the things was the ideal way to ruin spontaneity and break the mood.

But, although she didn't press the issue, House knew Myrna had a real thing for French Ticklers. He did want her to be happy. He did love how she looked when she went into paroxysms of ecstasy. So he figured, what the hell, he would give the woman a thrill.

He lifted his brows and liberated his grin. "You said something about a romp before bedtime?"

"Oh, yeah."

"But...what about your chores in the _bathroom_?" he crowed, mocking her.

"French Tickler sex overrides bathroom chores," she said with great enthusiasm.

Amazing. The thought of bedding down with him made her giddy as a Publisher's Clearing House prize winner. This was _truly, _amazingly extraordinary. He should be used to it by now but...no, he wasn't.

_Fucking unbelievable._

Not that he was complaining.

_There she goes..._

...gripping that box of Ticklers, scurrying off to ready herself for him, while here _he_ was, leaning on his cane to push his creaky boned, pudding assed, middle aged self to an upright position.

_Would wonders never cease?_

"Yo!" came the shout from his (their!) bedroom.

"What?"

"If you forget that warming gel, you will be very, _very_ sorry."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She couldn't sleep.

At some point during the night she felt herself drifting off, but then the slideshow began again and she had no choice but to watch. The scenes ran chronologically, of course, beginning from that first moment of attraction to the time she had initiated their only kiss.

She was aware there were no real rules of attraction. It just happened, like an unexpected brush of fingers on the back of the neck: intrusive but titillating at the same time. The memory of those first moments of awareness struck her like that touch. She could still feel that not unpleasant shiver, borne from the knowledge that _here was someone special, someone possessing a smoldering uniqueness_, _someone_ _way, way out of the norm... _

Early on in her fellowship, she made it her business to arrive at the Diagnostics room and begin her job earlier than Foreman and Chase. Her intent was to impress her new boss with her work ethic and enthusiasm. Usually House sauntered in after everyone else but this January day he was early too. He brought the winter chill with him; it clung to his clothes, to his body, like the leg pain he attempted to hide but never could. He seated himself across from her, chewing his bagel, sipping his coffee, dividing his attention between her chatter and the sports page. She recalled wondering why he kept that scruffy stubble. It wasn't designer scruff, like the Miami Vice look some of the younger doctors wore. It was messy, rough-hewn, unkempt, like his shirts, like _him._ That was the moment she wanted to run her fingers over his cheeks and chin, feel the gradually warming skin under her palms, the prickle of scruff scratching her skin.

It was the moment she lost the game.

It was the moment that opened the door to embarrassments: the time she had asked him if he liked her (how could she ever have expected a positive response to that?), the time she forced him to go out on that date, only to come away from it mortified from his bruising honesty (but she held onto that damn corsage he gave her that night, storing it in her freezer for months before finally getting up the gumption to trash it). There were seconds, minutes, in-between times with him, words, gestures, _moments_ that on their own were insignificant, but together added much to the larger picture of her obsession. A crush. Her crush. Like a teenager, she was ashamed to admit how often she fantasized about him.

She was pathetic.

Their one kiss came about from her plan to distract. Nothing more. She wanted to stick him while he was...otherwise engaged, jab a needle in him to get a sample of his blood. She never got it. What she did get was his undivided attention, the feel of his stubble against her palms, his tongue making a slow tour of her lips, teeth and tongue. It ended badly, of course. It was just another embarrassment, another sparkling reason for him to hurl a harsh barrage of sarcasm her way: words she hauled around with her the rest of the day, the week, the month. Hell, they were _still_ with her, along with all the others she had collected over time-the makings of a secret shine locked up in her _purty_ little head.

Her bedroom was cold. Before she turned in, she opened the window, enjoying the balmy pine scented breeze. But as the night turned to early morning, the temperature dropped appreciably, making her shiver. She burrowed deep inside her sea of blankets, pretending it was his body wrapped around her instead of down and fabric.

She swallowed, hitched back a sob. She _had_ to stop this.

At work she was an expert at hiding her distress. But after the bitter altercation on Monday, she needed someone to talk to-someone non-judgmental, someone who might not sympathize but would understand. She turned to Cuddy, who provided some comfort, but knew that sad little Allison Cameron was reaping what she sowed. _Steer clear of him when you can, _was her advice. _Keep things professional from now on and you'll be fine._

Fine.

Closing her eyes, she willed herself to fall, to dream of Minnesota in July at her brother's annual barbecue bash. But she could hold that image of wives, babies, blue skies, burgers and suburbia only so long before it shattered, leaving her with the Greg House Slideshow playing over and over in lurid Technicolor.

_No. _Cameron sat up. Hunching forward, she rubbed her eyes and pressed her head to her bent knees.

_What's so special about Nurse Myrna?_

The words floated up from her subconscious, unbidden. They had been lying in wait, lurking, giving a ten count before leaping forward, grasping her by the throat and throttling her.

_What's so special..._

The endless loop of the slideshow was disturbing, but this was worse. This was a confrontation of a different kind, like facing herself in a mirror and not being able to escape her own confrontational stare.

..._about Nurse Myrna?_

Sure, since being informed that House was marrying this woman,

_(Marrying _her)

the question had presented itself to her. But dismissing it in the light of day had been easy. Alone in the dark chill of her bedroom at 2 A.M., she was forced to reconsider it. She pictured the woman. She had a funny distant look in her hazel eyes, a nose that was neither too big or too small, hair that was two shades lighter than mousy brown. Some highlights would add a bit of _oomph_ to it. Makeup would improve that nondescript look. Hey, they could be best buds.

Cameron pictured herself taking Myrna to Sanson's, that chic salon down in Soho that was all the rage. A woman needs to beautify herself for her wedding, after all. It _was_ a special day, after all. Roberto would do what he could with Myrna, but he wasn't a miracle worker. It was doubtful he could make a silk purse from a sow's ear. But at least the woman could be made to look..._presentable_.

Cameron shivered again. It would be a simple matter to get out of bed and close the window. It would also be a simple matter to take a drive to the hospital and have a chat with Nurse Myrna. Woman to woman. What kind of friend would she be if she didn't give Myrna a heads up on what she was getting herself into? Gosh.

The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:11. If she hurried she could be at Myrna's station in twenty minutes. Maybe Nursie had a break coming. They could talk. Yes a talk would benefit both of them. The poor deluded girl probably had no clue as to what might lie ahead. Good ol' Cameron could enlighten her.

Allison Cameron would be Myrna Bromfeld's best bud. Here was the perfect opportunity to find out so much more about...

..._about what?_

She sat on the edge of the bed, hanging her head, rubbing her hands over her goose pimpled thighs and upper arms. Warmth. She needed warmth. Maybe she should call Chase. At least he would be good for a slow fuck and a few laughs.

_But that would be putting yourself first, wouldn't it? What kind of a friend would you be to Myrna then?_

So true. With a determined grunt, she pushed herself off the bed and headed for the shower.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Thanks for reading, reviewing and sticking with the story. I appreciate your interest.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Thanks, **as always, to NaiveEve, who continues to lend a hand even though she is so busy. Thanks for the beta!

**-6-**

_Cameron will pay you a visit. She'll be oh, so nice, shoveling that best girlfriend crap on you. But beware-that's all it will be... crap. What she'll really want is to figure out...'why you, Myrna, why you?'. _

The elevator doors slid open, causing Myrna to reluctantly look up from her work and peer down the corridor toward the sound. Her mouth fell open, the pen dropping from her fingers as the woman from the elevator drew near. Her heels clicked merrily against the linoleum. She was beautiful, dressed in simple black dress pants, scoop neck pink blouse and a blue and white blazer. Blessed with a killer smile and perfect hair, she might have just stepped off the plane from Tinseltown. A chill ran across Myrna's shoulders and down her spine, and suddenly she was not so sure if Greg was kidding when he said he could see the future.

"Hi, Dr. Cameron," Myrna said in soft surprise. She retrieved her pen, hurriedly making one last notation on the file before returning it to its folder.

"Myrna, hi." Cameron was as breathless as if she had just raced up three flights of stairs. She smoothed one hand through her hair. Shifting from one foot to the other, she seemed restless, wired. She perused the empty hallway, then gazed at Nurse Ellie and Dr. Beatty, who were seated to Myrna's right. They were murmuring to one another, jotting notes on files that were spread before them like war strategy maps.

"Is...there something I can help you with, Doctor?"

"Ah." Cameron drummed her fingers against Myrna's desk. "Well, I thought we might have a little chat."

"Is something wrong?" Myrna asked. "Have I done something...?"

"Oh, no," Cameron's chortle was a bit too loud, too bright. "Of course not. I just thought since you're getting married...we might have...a little chat."

"About what?"

"About you...getting married to Dr. House."

Cameron's voice quavered slightly; Beneath her eyes were smudges of shadow. Two carelessly applied smears of foundation makeup did nothing to hide them. There were cracks in the seams...

"Ah, I see." Myrna nodded, folding her arms.

"Yes." Cameron stopped her drumming, tensed her fingers into fists and dropped them to her sides. "If it isn't too presumptuous, I thought maybe you could use a little advice."

"Well, " Myrna pressed a finger to her chin and looked at the ceiling. "I already know about the birds and the bees."

"Oh...no." Cameron's voice was too loud in the quiet corridor. "That's not what I meant."

"I know," Myrna assured her with a smile. "I expect to say our vows, scarf down some wedding cake, head off to Canada for our honeymoon-"

"Canada?"

Myrna laughed. "Greg's never been there and I was in Toronto once for a friend's wedding. It was lovely, but since we wanted to go somewhere we had both never been, we decided on Montreal. Not your typical honeymoon hotspot, I know."

"No. It'll probably be lots of...fun." Cameron shook her head. "I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have come." She looked haggard and confused.

It was Myrna's turn to drum her fingers. Her eyes narrowed with concern. "Have you gotten any sleep, Doctor?"

"Well, a little," she shrugged. "Why?"

"It's just that it's 3 A.M."

Cameron made a show of checking her watch. "Is this a bad time for me to be here, talking with you?"

"No, I'm used to being up and about at...3 A.M." One side of her mouth lifted as she waggled a finger at Cameron. "You're not."

Myrna followed Cameron's gaze as it traveled to Nurse Ellie and Doc Beatty. They'd put their work on hold, and now seemed much more interested in the Cam and Myrna Show.

"Do you have a break?" Cameron asked, lowering her tone as she met Myrna's eyes.

"In a few minutes."

"Mind if I join you?"

_Why you, Myrna...? _Greg's question overrode all the other little musings in Myrna's head.

"No," she said. "Not at all."

"Great." Cameron hitched her thumb toward the nurses lounge. "I'll get us some coffee, meet you there."

"I...uh, don't drink coffee."

Cameron's brows knit as though she had just been presented an earth shattering dilemma. "Tea, then?"

"Orange juice, if you don't mind."

"Ah, orange juice it is." Cameron flashed that assured, sparkling grin again, turned on her heel and headed toward the vending machines.

Closing her eyes, Myrna rested one elbow on her desk and pinched the bridge of her nose. She could almost feel Greg hovering over her, lips quirking up in that smug, satisfied smirk, knowing he was right again.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Myrna was like a whiteboard. Plain, unfettered, crying out for some color, some creative noodling to remedy all that _blandness._

_Why...you, Myrna?_

The steam from her coffee tickled her nostrils, the warmth and comforting aroma worked their magic to soothe her. She took a sip, savoring the bitter taste as she observed Myrna from just beyond the door.

_I can see her, she can't see me. Nyah, nyah, nyah._

Cameron almost lost it then. She half sputtered and turned away, wandering down the hallway until she regained her composure. "Maybe," she thought, padding back to the doorway, "maybe I _should_ have called Chase instead."

But she was here and on a mission. She reminded herself of her restless half sleep, the slideshow that refused to quit. It was _his_ fault she was here. And whatever came of this encounter would be his fault as well.

She took another sip of coffee, continuing her surveillance. Myrna was seated at the long table in the center of the room. She was reading a magazine as she devoured forkfuls of fried rice from a Tupperware bowl,

(_ravenous little wench)_

seemingly oblivious of the problematic life waiting for her at the other end of the rainbow. The woman was white bread, mayonnaise, fuzzy slippers and Ovaltine. Certainly no match for the brazen, caustic House. He might be wonderful to her now, treating her with the skewed Housian version of respect. Well, sure, she was the first steady bed partner he'd had since...Stacy. Of course it wouldn't last. In time he would devour her spirit and leave nothing but a shell of the person she had been. Cameron sighed, feeling that familiar heaviness in her chest.

_Don't you worry that pretty little head of yours. _The voice of Uncle Joe, her father's brother, the man with the sensible, no nonsense advice, sounded in her head._ Play this cool and you might just get the upper hand, little lady._

Cameron detested Uncle Joe. He treated all women like simpletons. But somehow he gave the best advice of anyone she had ever known. She would always follow it but wouldn't dare give him satisfaction by telling him so.

_No worries_, she promised herself, stepping into the lounge. She plastered her perfect smile across her porcelain doll face and set the container of orange juice on the table. "How's the rice?"

"Mmm," Myrna said, holding up a finger as she swallowed a mouthful. "So good. Greg knows the best place for take out." She closed the magazine. "Thanks for the juice."

"No problem." Cameron took another sip of coffee as she seated herself across from Myrna.

"How are you going to manage to put in a day's work after this?" Myrna shook her head, reaching for the juice. She opened it, took a sip. "You'll be exhausted."

"Oh, don't worry about me," Cameron sang. "I can crash for a couple of hours after our talk and I'll be fine."

They stared at each other. The radio in the corner had its volume turned low. The song playing was all jangly acoustic guitars fronted by an earnest folky tenor. "Sunshine" by Jonathan Edwards. Cam silently congratulated herself for remembering the tune. It had been a long time since she'd heard it. She rubbed her brow, huffed a small laugh.

"What did you want to talk to me about, Doctor?"

She sniffed and raised her head, the heaviness in her chest rising to her throat. "I've known Greg House for three years, Myrna."

"I know."

"He is the most difficult, arrogant, self absorbed person I have ever met."

The corners of Myrna's lips curled up slowly. "I know."

"And you're marrying him."

"Yes." Myrna cocked her head and responded softly, "And _you_ must understand the attraction, Dr. Cameron. You dated him."

Cameron's mouth moved but her words stuck fast against the back of her throat. She glanced inside her coffee cup, at the stained brown bottom, the dregs. "Twice. Yes," she said, finding her voice, which was disappointingly small and hoarse.

"But you couldn't take his honesty. He's brutal." Myrna set her fork in the empty bowl and snapped on the lid. "Me? I can take it. I don't care."

"How could you not care?"

"I don't know." She raised her eyes to the ceiling, then back to Cameron. "In some respects, I've been on my own almost my whole life. I learned to exist without being emotionally dependent on anyone-a parent, friend, lover, whoever." She leaned forward, her smile never wavering. "See, I love him. I love being around him. But I don't _need_ him to complete me." She shrugged. "Does that make any sense?"

It made a lot of sense. Need was the reason Stacy left him. If she hadn't been so emotionally reliant on House she might have still been with him. That ten ton weight in Cam's throat plunged to her stomach. She felt sick because she knew. This one had potential. This one could last.

"You okay, Doctor?"

Cameron cleared her throat. "I'll be fine."

After tucking the Tupperware into a plastic bag, Myrna wiped her hands on a paper towel. "Is that all you wanted to talk about, Doctor?"

"No." Cameron forced herself to brighten, to wrench the grin back up from the depths. "I'd...like to give you a wedding present."

"Nooo." Myrna waved her hands. "That's not necessary. Just come to the wedding. That'll be-"

"Please. This is from me to you."

"Doctor-"

"Call me Allison."

"Allison." Myrna stretched the name as if testing out each syllable. "We hardly know one another. If you have a gift it should be for Greg or...for both us."

"No." Cameron yawned and rubbed her eyes before continuing. "Oh, excuse me. No. This is specifically from me to you."

Myrna gazed at the ceiling again, as if something of great interest lingered there. "You're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"

That heaviness in Cameron's gut dissipated slightly as she folded her hands before her. "You're getting married. You need to look your best."

Myrna lowered her gaze to meet Cameron's and shrugged. "I do what I can with what I've got."

"That's not good enough."

Frowning, Myrna brushed her fingers down her cheek. Her irises darkened to a muddy green and something else in them changed. A dot of uncertainty supplanted itself there, like a miniscule malignancy. With the proper care it could grow into a full blown tumor. Cam's knees trembled with excitement. She had definitely struck a nerve.

_You got her now. Just play it cool, little lady..._

The heaviness in Cameron's entrails disappeared, replaced by a lightness, a giddiness. She wished she could free the triumphant little _whoop_ that was stirring restlessly inside her like a racehorse at the gate.

"What do you mean?" Worry had joined uncertainty to swim in the troubled green waters of Lake Myrna.

"Look," Cameron leaned forward, gifting her with a conspiratorial smile, "You don't have to be plain and washed out on your wedding day. Let me help you look beautiful."

Myrna touched her hair, let her fingers drift down her cheek again as her gaze traveled off to some distant place. "He doesn't have a problem with how I look."

"I'm going to be blunt here." Cameron took a deep breath, her fingers flexing against her thighs. "Because you _need_ to hear this."

"O...kay."

"Obviously he likes your body, likes the sex, he's found some affinity with you, " she tapped her temple, "up here." But sooner or later, he'll want more. If you don't pretty yourself up, he's going to grow bored with you. Very quickly."

Myrna's look became steely, her tone defensive. "Somehow...I don't think so."

Cameron donned her best tolerant smirk. "I've seen how he looks at young, beautiful women who pass him in the clinic, on the grounds. He's got a definite eye for them. You're going to have competition, whether you like it or not."

Myrna's jaw clenched. She brushed an errant grain of rice off the table. "I don't see-"

"Some women find married men so much more desirable-"

"What are you proposing?" Myrna fixed her with glare. "Allison."

Her adrenaline was flowing now, heart pounding, _pounding_ with joy.. She gave a little bounce on her seat. "Let me help you start this off right."

"And how-?"

"A makeover, the works. Hair, manicure, pedicure, skin treatment. I'll take you to my stylist Roberto at Sanson's. It's down in Soho in Manhattan."

"I...don't have time for this...Allison."

"Sure you do, Myrna. You have to make the time." She pressed her hands against the table and threw Myrna a conspiratorial wink. "Friday after I get off of work, we'll go, make a night of it. Then you can stay over my place-"

"Hold on."

"Myrna..." Cameron raised her brows. "You weren't planning on sleeping with him the night before the wedding, were you?" She clicked her tongue and wagged a finger. "That's bad luck."

"I don't believe in bad luck."

The quaver in Myrna's voice brought a happy little flutter to Cam's gut. _This was so great_.

"If you stay over, I'll be able to do your makeup Saturday morning. Then you'll be all set." Cameron flattened her palms together as if preparing to pray. "It will be beautiful, trust me. And House will be so surprised." She adored the unsure, almost fearful expression on Myrna's face. If the woman dissolved into tears, if one salty drip flowed down her cheek, it would have made Cameron's entire week. But...no. Myrna just bit her lower lip, seeming to stifle whatever emotion was pushing at her.

"Okay." Myrna lowered her eyes and studied her fingernails. "It sounds reasonable and you're more than generous."

"Of course." Cameron reached over and grasped one of Myrna's hands. "But don't tell him what we're up to."

"He'll know something's going on if I'm not home."

Cameron pondered this for a moment, her gaze never leaving Myrna's. "Just tell him what I said about bad luck." She scrunched her nose and patted Myrna's hand. "I'm sure he'll understand."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched the rise and fall of her shoulders, how her lips parted slightly with each breath. A soft sigh escaped her and she snuggled deeper into the comforter.

It had been an interesting day. The anticipation of partying was always good for putting people in a decent mood. And it wasn't difficult to see that Foreman and Chase were planning something devious for the evening. Was Wilson a co-conspirator? If he was, he gave no sign. House could tell by the looks Foreman and Chase gave each other that something was up: barely concealed smirks, a quick quirk of a brow, a double thumbs up when they thought he wasn't looking. They were like teenagers armed with a whoopie cushion and a joy buzzer, waiting to strike.

House could hardly wait. He could take whatever they had to dish out. But Myrna, on the other hand...

In a few hours she would be in the hands of Cameron and Cuddy. And Cameron seemed unusually chipper today, almost giddy, laughing at his jokes, throwing him odd little knowing glances. The arrogance and defensiveness of yesterday seemed to have been junked with the morning trash.

He didn't trust her.

"Hey." House drew the comforter off Myrna's shoulder and placed his hand against her warm skin.

"Mmmm." She turned over on her back, eyes still closed. "Hi."

"Aren't your pals coming to steal you away soon?"

"Mmm, soon." One hand materialized from beneath the comforter to pat the area next to her. "Lay down with me."

That familiar anticipatory warmth washed over him. It would be easy to peel the comforter back and savor the swell of her breasts beneath her skinny t-shirt. Already her scent was...everywhere, sweat and musk overriding the usual light floral scent. Very female, very good. It meant she had yet to shower, a fact which made his nether region ache deliciously. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. "If we start doing what we do we're going to lose track of time."

"Good."

He leaned over, kissed her lightly on the mouth.

They stared at each other. She whispered finally, "Cameron believes in bad luck."

Eyes narrowed, he searched for a hint of levity in her eyes, but was surprised to find none. "What does that mean?"

"She says it would be bad luck for us to sleep together Friday, before the wedding."

He scoffed. "And you believed her?"

She shrugged, her cheeks taking on a pinkish flush.

"Cameron's an expert button pusher, plus she's bitter." He paused and leaned closer, his eyes boring into hers. "You're crying."

She sniffed and rubbed a corner of the comforter against her cheek. "Yeah."

Lifting her chin between two fingers, he grumbled, "You let her upset you."

"She's beautiful." Myrna rubbed one eye with a fist, reminding House of a sleepy five year old. "She wanted to take me for a makeover, said you'd get tired of me...if I didn't...beautify myself."

He was intolerant of dramatic displays of self pity. Tears, whining, sentiments of regret all made him want to hurl. For the most part they were fake, a potent way of releasing tension while attempting to garner some nauseating sympathy and a hug.

_None of that crap in your world. Isn't that right, old man?_

But Myrna wasn't faking. She was not one to bellow complaints about life's unfairness. Even the mention of Frannie couldn't bring her to muster a harsh word. But Cameron. Cameron ruined her day.

"You can't let her get to you. I gave her a hard time on Monday. She's just trying to get back at me, but it's not going to work." He leaned his cane against the nightstand, kicked off his sneakers and eased himself next to her.

"No?"

"No." Turning on his side, he tugged the comforter down to her waist then ran one hand up her shirt. With his thumb he formed intricate, delicate patterns against her nipple.

"Why?" Her eyelids fluttered shut. She threw her head back and mewed soft sounds of pleasure.

"Because I wouldn't like a lot of makeup on you."

"_Nnnnnnnnnnnuh?_

"No." His other hand joined its partner in its slow tour of her breasts. "It's expensive and would get all over my shirt when we slow danced."

"We...don't...slow...dance." She squeezed his scrotum gently through his jeans.

"Ohhhh. Yeah, well," His voice was gruff and low. "who knows what the future might bring?"


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Thanks: **as always to NaiveEve for the excellent beta.

**-7-**

Now _this _was going to be fun.

Foreman had been to bachelor parties before, been responsible for planning bachelor parties, had gotten totally wrecked at bachelor parties. But he had never been given the task of getting his boss plastered out of his mind...at a bachelor party.

Like his mother always said, there was a first time for everything.

He had volunteered for the designated driver position. No sense tying one on and waking up shit faced and hung over on the morning of a work day. He didn't imagine Chase or Wilson would do an inordinate amount of imbibing either. But House? He was a different story. He was going to get ripped. And damn, he was going to enjoy it.

The plan was that Foreman would pick up House, then swing by Chase's to pick up Chase and Wilson. That would give Foreman the opportunity to be alone with House for a while, which was where the _real _fun came in. He had a personal wedding gift for his boss. A certain little something that would start the slow slide into inebriation on a nice mellow track.

His BMW purred along the Princeton side streets, taking the corners with ease. He turned up the music, tapping two fingers against the wheel along with Ike and Tina's rendition of "Proud Mary" (oh, yeah, Tina likes to do things nice...and _rough). _One block ahead was House's apartment building. It was a moderate sized structure in a moderately decent part of town. Foreman wondered why a man prone to such excesses would choose to live surrounded by moderation. But maybe that was the key to his survival.

And there he was, leaning against the wall, twirling his cane from hand to hand like it was a cheerleader's baton. He was damn good with the thing. Could win some kind of 'king o' the gimps' award if he wanted. And he looked...relaxed. Those lines of stress around his eyes had softened. Yeah, he was definitely _getting it..._daily. Regular sex with a steady, not for hire, partner will do wonders for you. Well, good for him. _Maybe he'll be easier to deal with, be less of a moody bastard. _"Nah," Foreman discarded the thought. "No way. House was House." He let out a low chuckle as he pulled up to the curb.

"Whatchoo got, señor?" House bellowed. "A piñata for the party boy?"

"Get in the car, House," Foreman called. "Time is a-wastin'."

House pushed himself off the wall and gave his cane one final twirl before joining Foreman in the car. He sank into the rich leather and buckled up. "You've managed to afford a ride like this on what I pay you?"

"I scrape by," Foreman told him, cutting the wheel and heading downtown.

"You doing some pimping on the side?"

Foreman whistled through his teeth. "Haven't touched a drop, and _you_ are in rare form already, I see." He accelerated slightly as he rounded the corner.

"Your tires squealed." House reached over and jabbed a button on the stereo. Immediately the bass deepened to an overwhelming _thud, thud, thud, _causing the floor to rumble and Foreman's eardrums to pound in time.

With a grunt, Foreman punched the button again, easing the bass down to a listenable level. He threw House a disgruntled look. "What are you talking about?"

"When you took that corner, your tires squealed." Leaning forward again, House scrutinized the tone controls and jacked the treble up.

"What the hell-?" Foreman slapped at House's hand but missed, since House had moved on to a new activity: twisting the air conditioner dial to 'coldest'.

"You're crazy." Foreman's free hand was all over the controls, fingers jabbing buttons, returning the settings to 'normal.' "Leave my damn stuff alone."

House's grin was triumphant, like he'd won the round. "You should pay more attention to your driving instead of what I'm doing." Lifting a brow, he added, "Only a moron takes a turn like you did."

Foreman dared not step into the arena with a scathing response. Not when he had to be in House's presence for the next few hours. Gritting his teeth, he drove on, a few choice profanities playing in his head as he _carefully_ turned the next corner.

"Ve-errrry good." House smirked and applauded.

Tina Turner was belting out "Try A Little Tenderness".

"He beat the shit out of her, you know." House indicated the speaker with a flick of his hand.

"Who?"

"Ike. He used to really do a job on her."

From his peripheral vision, Foreman could see House turn to him, mischief dancing in those eyes..

"You ever hit a woman, Eric?" he asked.

"No!"

"No? Never? Come on, 'fess up."

Foreman bit his tongue and rolled to a stop at the light. "Okay, once."

House emitted an exaggerated gasp. "What could have precipitated such a heinous act? Did she get chicken grease on your purple 'go to meetin' shirt?"

"I was sixteen. She stole my stash."

"Ah, Eric Foreman...The Early Years."

"She stole my stash and gave it to my brother." Foreman tapped the gas and they rolled on. When he spoke again, his voice had a harder edge. "So maybe she did me a favor..."

Tina hit that final bombastic note and the CD ended. The air from the vents whispered clean and cool. Foreman liked the silence and, since House wasn't bitching, he made no move to change the music.

They were heading deeper into the city. Past the Wal-Marts and the Pizza Huts and the Donut Heavens was a darker, more feral main drag. Here storefronts were either barred, locked and abandoned, or wide open and swelling with locals. Music blared from open windows and boom boxes. Snatches of hip-hop and rhythm and blues melded with a touch of salsa to create a unique soundtrack for the evening's activities. Then there were other, less appealing sounds that ebbed and flowed on the warm spring air: frenetic chatter in English and Spanish, a scream, drunken laughter.

_Over there..._

A group of kids clambered on a bicycle rack, using it as makeshift monkey bars. Three teenage boys sat on the sidewalk, hunched in a close circle, passing around...something. Guys in their twenties, who could somehow afford top line Nikes and football jerseys, bounced basketballs and strutted their stuff for the ladies.

"Well, it's nice to see your homies being so productive." House nodded at the street fest. "Strutting and dope peddling _are_ art forms, after all."

"These are not my homies."

"Really, now." House's eyes widened with incredulity. "And here I thought you'd come to reminisce, to give me a somewhat...sentimental tour of the ol' homestead."

"Wrong again."

House snapped his fingers and made a gesture of triumph at the roof's interior. "_I _know."

"You do huh?" Rolling his eyes, Foreman turned down the next street. He drove past abandoned buildings and burnt out storefronts before finally pulling into a small parking lot with room for about twenty cars. The majority of spaces were filled.

"We're off to a soul food barbecue." House inhaled deeply, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. "Can't you just smell the hog fat frying?" Folding his arms, he peered cautiously out the side window. "But this sure ain't the place, Famous Amos. Not a bar-b-cue grill in sight."

"This is the place."

"Oh, yeah? Where are those big black guys, the ones who call y'all 'suh'? You know, they wear those big chef's hats and have the brightest, whitest teeth...

"House, shut _up."_

The lot was shadow strewn, illuminated by a single flickering streetlamp and the waning light of day. Perfect for a haunted hayride but not a whole lot more. Beyond the lot: a broken heap of a wooden fence and a three story building. A small blue light burned over its door. Not an inviting scene. But Foreman knew beyond that door was a whole mess of what House would consider _cool._

"Come on."

"I'll wait here."

"You damn well won't." Foreman pushed open the driver's side door and eased himself out of the car. "Let's go."

He watched House push himself from the BMW. Assuming he would follow, Foreman headed down a ragged path, rife with beer bottles, aluminum cans, plastic food containers and condom wrappers. In a moment, the realization hit him: he was on his merry way alone. Clenching his fists, he kicked up some debris and spun on his heel. There was House, standing by the car, digging the tip of his cane hard into the dirt and gravel.

"House. What the hell-?"

"Okay, I get it," House shouted.

"_What?"_ Patience wasn't Foreman's strongest suit. Another minute of this idiocy and he would start yelling things he wished he hadn't.

"You're kidnapping me."

"Oh, my god..."

"You have every hooker I ever diddled in that sugar shack just waiting to do me for old time's sake."

"If that was the case, there would be a line out the door, making its way past that fence, past the cars and into downtown Princeton." The image of a throng of call girls, filing their nails or primping their hair while waiting for House to do them was priceless. At least they would all have something in common. War stories. "You'd never survive."

"I figured that was your plan. Death by orgasm overload."

Foreman beckoned with the same two fingers he used to tap along with Tina. "Would you come on? Please?"

House scrutinized the area once more. He took a step forward then stopped to throw Foreman a suspicious glare.

"It's okay. It's safe," Foreman threw his hands in the air. "I promise."

House hesitated before reluctantly pressing on. His sneaker soles crunched along the pebble strewn dirt as he made his way toward Foreman. "So this isn't some elaborate practical joke?"

"No."

"You're not getting back at me for all your years of subservience?"

"No!" Foreman kicked a soda can out of his path One eye was trained surreptitiously on House, making sure he wasn't having too difficult a time with the rough terrain.

"You don't have to watch me. I may be a cripple but I can move." To prove his point, House pushed on, staggering only once before passing Foreman and arriving at the door before him."

"See?" House was winded but still standing.

"Impressive." Foreman knocked on the door twice.

"Speak the word, brother." A voice sounded over a small square speaker above their heads.

"The Illiad According To Marge." Foreman winked at House.

"The Odyssey According To Bart," the voice replied.

"By Homer...Simpson."

"You may pass." The voice boomed.

House's lips curled into a broad grin. He shook his head and let out a loud guffaw as the door swung open.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cuddy appointed herself designated driver for Myrna's night out. As much as she would have enjoyed downing a drink or two this evening, she knew remaining sober was for the best. But Cameron? She looked like she could use something more potent than a wine cooler. Ever since her altercation with House, her moods had been inconsistent, swinging from giddiness to despair. She needed the release tonight. Hopefully she and Myrna would put aside the bitchery and be civil to each other. But at the moment, the olive branch didn't look to be forthcoming from either camp.

They sat, stewing in silence in the back of Cuddy's Lexus while Cuddy navigated the car around the corner. The stereo was on, the music low. As usual, Joni Mitchell was warbling about her old man and good omelets and stew. Every lyric, every subtle shade of melody Joni sang was so deeply ingrained, Cuddy could sing them in her sleep. Of course she could. The damn CD had been in the player forever. It accompanied to her to work, on her ride home, making it the soundtrack to her life. Home, work, work, home. Where the hell else did she go? Oh, yes, she _did_ venture out to the supermarket once a week to buy chicken, salad stuff, Diet Coke and ice cream. Such was the exciting life of Lisa Cuddy.

"Come on, girls, brighten up," Cuddy called, checking out her passengers in the rearview. "This is supposed to be a party."

Cameron shifted, twisting her pretty mouth into a pout. She alternately scrutinized her nails and glowered out the window. Her lips moved again, then thinned into a tight pink line. Whatever bleak thoughts were stirring in that noggin would not make it to broadcast today.

Myrna's eyes flicked briefly toward Cameron. She heaved a sigh, shrugged, then offered Cuddy a soft smile.

There was a time a smile like that might have suckered House in. Cuddy recalled when all she had to do to give him some hope for an interesting evening was lift her head, lock in on those panty peeling baby blues...and smile. She lied to herself, pretending she had the advantage over him, denying the powerful effect he wielded over her libido. Giving him his own back was the game she attempted to play: acting the charmer, the seducer. But she couldn't hope to compete because back then he was the master. And by the end of the evening he would have gotten the best of her, stealing out her dorm room afterwards, leaving behind his scent of sweat and sex on her sheets...like a goddamn tomcat.

She glanced in the rearview and couldn't help wonder how it was with Myrna and House. Did she initiate their lovemaking? Did he hold her afterwards? How was sex with Nurse Myrna different than sex with Coed Lisa? A wave of melancholy rose, crested and broke, nearly drowning her; Cuddy inhaled deeply and swallowed against a sob, well aware those answers would never be hers.

More silence from the girls, more Joni from the player. Cuddy decided she needed to stock up on about ten CD's worth of good new music. Music with life, some _oomph_. Maybe some of the younger people at work could clue her in to what was worth buying.

Sometimes she really felt...ancient.

They were cruising uptown, so _chi-chi, _the part of Princeton filled with cafés, clubs and fashionable restaurants. Cuddy pulled the car into the lot of an establishment called _Dimples_ and cut the motor. Her passengers remained silent and stoic.

A line was forming at the entrance of the place: women of all ages, some clad in skimpy, sparkly dresses, others in miniskirts and low cut blouses, laughed and joked and jostled each other. The few men present were an incongruent part of the mix. They looked like they would have rather been stranded on an ice floe in the Antarctic than hanging out with this excited gaggle of females. The guys seemed lost, milling around, staring at their shoes or the sky or the parking lot.. But the ladies didn't seem to care. They were jiggling, dancing in place, ready to pa-arty.

Cuddy turned and leaned one arm over the back of her seat. "What is up with you guys?" she asked, "Did somebody die?"

"We have reservations," Cameron wrenched off her seatbelt and hitched her bag over her shoulder. "We should go before they give our table away." She left the car, slamming the door behind her and headed toward the entrance.

Cuddy searched Myrna's eyes. "I'm clueless, kiddo."

"You're very kind to have put his evening together, Dr. Cuddy, but," Myrna gave a sorrowful shake of her head. "maybe it's best if I go home."

Myrna. This was the woman House had chosen to _marry._ God. Each time Cuddy thought the shock had worn off, it came screaming back like a rocket hurtling down from the heavens.

She was not a classic beauty. But there was...something there: a clarity, an openness in her face. Cuddy could see why House had been attracted to her. The woman was that rare breed, an open book who, if she lied, it would be to ward off a hurt rather than to cause one. Of course, Cuddy could be totally wrong, her instincts well off the mark, and Myrna would turn out to be nothing more than a gold digging fiend.

She knew next to nothing about Myrna, except that she had started life at Princeton-Plainsboro as an LPN, then went to classes, studied hard and became an RN. Her work ethic was good. She was never late, never out sick. No one on staff had a bad word to say about her. Not even Nurse Brenda made derogatory remarks about Myrna, and she was usually good for a complaint or two about everyone.

Was Myrna fooling everyone? Was she a charlatan? Was she going to use House, enjoying his comfortable apartment, his money, his status, until she'd had enough? Would she get a lawyer then, go after him for whatever she could get?

_Somehow_...Cuddy mused, looking into Myrna's hazel eyes, _I don't think so._

"What happened with you and Cameron?" Cuddy asked softly.

Myrna played with the hem of her dress and looked away.

"Maybe I can help you through this or maybe I can't," Cuddy said. "But at least give me a chance."

The silence lingered. The throng at the door of _Dimples_ began to press forward.

"She's just having a problem with this whole thing." Myrna's words were heavy weights, one dragging after the other. "She wanted to take me for a makeover, get me all painted and prim." She raised her eyes to meet Cuddy's. "But that's not me, Doctor. It never will be. But she tried to shame me into it. She kind of hurt my feelings, which made me think she was trying to get back at Greg..."

It sounded like something Cameron might stoop to, especially when it came to House.

"I called her earlier today, told her that I would have to turn down her offer." Myrna exhaled slowly, focusing on the queue at the door.

Cuddy followed her gaze and saw Cameron lagging behind, throwing impatient glares at the Lexus.

"I was surprised at the way she lashed out at me," Myrna continued. "Told me I'm a fool, told me I don't have a chance in hell of making this marriage work." Shrugging, she returned her attention to the hem of her dress. "Greg doesn't say much about it, but I can just imagine how she's acting toward him."

Cuddy thought about what she should say. She was beginning to have a grudging admiration for Myrna. The woman was certainly her own person. And in her gentle way, she could probably handle anything House could dish out. Cuddy wished she could spend more time with her. Alone. Discovering more about Myrna might reveal a totally different side of House. But Cameron was out there, shooting virtual daggers at them both.

"The fact that he's marrying you is big. To call it a major step in his life is a gross understatement," Cuddy said.

"Marriage is a major step for anyone."

"Yes...but this is different. This is like he's stepping into the daylight after years of hiding in a cave." She emphasized her words by patting her seatback with her palm. "And to those of us who have known him...forever, or over the last few years...his actions are somewhat...suspect. And Cameron, well, she's had this thing for him... "

"Uh...yeah."

"That's _her _problem. It has nothing to do with you." Tilting her head, Cuddy gave her a small smile. "But you're going to hear people talking, whispering behind your back because this is so...unlike him."

"They can think what they like. _She_ can think what she likes." Myrna returned Cuddy's grin. "See? For the first time since becoming a nurse, I've fallen into something good. Stepped in shit, as they say. It just sort of happened. And it feels right." She emitted a surprised, 'what can you do?' laugh. "It really feels right. I don't know when anything ever felt _this_ right."

"Well, then you're damn lucky."

"I know."

"I hope he realizes how lucky-"

"Don't." Myrna held a palm up, closed her eyes and shook her head. "Don't say it."

"O-kay." Was she superstitious? Was she wary of House being called lucky because of his association with her? Was there a self image problem here?

Myrna blinked her eyes open, and Cuddy could see a shimmer in the left one, a little moist pearl at the rim, a tear.

Cuddy made a great show of unbuckling her seatbelt as she retrieved her grin. "Let's go have a little fun."

"I...think I might just head home, Dr. Cuddy."

"Oh, come on now. You're going to miss The Dudes." Her smile morphed into a wicked, brazen smirk, her voice lowering to a rough whisper. "Five guys with tight buns and perfect pecs."

Myrna's mouth fell open. For the moment, she seemed intrigued.

"You've got to see them shake what their mamas gave 'em. Especially those extraordinary rear ends." Cuddy winked. "Why do you think they call the place _Dimples_?"

Myrna huffed out a melancholy laugh as she pulled her cell phone from her purse. "I wish I could, Dr. Cuddy. It sounds like an excellent evening of entertainment." She flipped the phone open. "But I can't. Not with Cameron here. I'd just be too stressed, too...uncomfortable. I wouldn't be any fun."

Cuddy wanted to disagree, to tell her that differences should be overlooked for the night. She would have a word with Cameron to set her straight. But Myrna was already talking on the phone, ordering a taxi.

And Cuddy had to admit, she couldn't blame Myrna for wanting to leave.

"Why don't you let me take you home?" Cuddy asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

"No, it's fine." Myrna slipped the phone back into her purse and unbuckled her seatbelt. "They'll be here in ten minutes. You go with Cameron, have a good time." She pushed open the door and let herself out. Her strides were quick and purposeful as she walked toward the curb without looking back.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The lights were...everywhere, hurtling toward him like miniature suns, surrounding him, warming him. They were perfect round strobes rushing, _whooshing_ past. He thought he might reach out the window to snatch one, to study its texture, embrace its heat. But his hand were so heavy, resting against his thighs. _Too much trouble. Much too much..._He rolled his head against his shoulders and opened his mouth, letting the wind graze his tongue, his lips.

_Oh...my...god, old man. You are so incredibly stoned._

"How you holding up?" Foreman asked.

It was an effort, but House managed to keep his eyes open as he turned his head toward his driver. Foreman's chocolate brown skin reflected the light of those suns better than whitey white skin would. _That_ would be boring. But _Foreman's_ cheeks...they glowed; those candy kiss eyes shone.

_Candy kiss eyes. _House giggled, picturing Foreman's eyeballs sitting on the dashboard, wrapped in silver foil. A pair of sweet treats. _Speaking of sweet treats._ He remembered his lollipop. He grabbed it from his shirt pocket and popped it in his mouth.

_Like a good boy._


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Thanks: **NaiveEve and Betz

**-8-**

"Oh, man." Foreman chuckled. House was...gone. His mouth had fallen open; his eyes were glassy slits. His attention was super glued to the half open window, the tip of his nose occasionally grazing the glass. He seemed mesmerized by the blur of cars and lights. Once or twice he made a snatching motion at the traffic but then his hand collapsed back into his lap as if it had had enough.

"Ohhh, man," Foreman could only shrug and grin, keeping his speed at a steady seventy as he rolled on down the highway.

They were late for the party. Their reservation at Gambini's was for eight o' clock and it was already eight seventeen. But the delay had been unavoidable. Foreman tossed Wilson a heads up, phoning him from The House of Blue Light, spoon feeding him the particulars of House's descent into blitzville. Wilson's reaction was...predictable: silence, then a sigh of frustration, then a characteristic shift to the problem at hand.

Wilson did not want to lose the reservation, so it was decided that he and Chase would take a cab to Gambini's and hold the table. But what were the prospective groom's thoughts on the subject? Well...at the moment House was crooning "Blame It On the Bossa Nova" to the traffic, mangling the lyrics, ree-ally making the song his own. Foreman sighed. Explaining the evening's plans to House would be like trying to hammer a nail into a brick with a plastic straw. A supreme waste of time.

Foreman never intended for House to become so deeply enmeshed in the zone this early in the evening. But give House free access to mind altering substances and this is the shit that happens.

Max Trask was the bookish, bespectacled proprietor of The House of Blue Light, the private club Foreman joined two years ago. An attentive, discreet host, he prided himself on providing those with a decent cash flow a party palace in the middle of ghettoland: a place to enjoy whatever floated their boat...within reason.

Max was a smart guy, a cautious entrepreneur who had no intention of getting raided or having his club shut down. Prostitution and drugs weren't his usual thing. He ran his club as a friendly gathering place for the privileged to meet and mingle. 'Keeping the customer satisfied' was a lost art he intended to bring back. So when Foreman asked him to procure some better grade cannabis, preferably Sour Diesel, for House's wedding celebration, Max complied, but not without reservations. Selling marijuana was about as deep as he would venture into illicit business practices. And Foreman knew if anyone else had made the request, Max might have refused. But the two men had a history, saving each others asses on more than one occasion in their younger days. And Max was a loyal guy with a long memory who didn't believe in letting a friend down.

So Max welcomed the two men into his office and with a flourish, opened his desk drawer and produced a small polished wooden box "For the groom," he announced, smiling, handing the box to House. House's eyes grew wide as he opened his gift and studied the pretties that were procured expressly for him. Ah, yes, here was a blunt, a few joints, and a 'couch pop' (which, Max explained, was a lime lolly mixed with _essence du cannabis_. Lovely and potent as a joint without the smoke and mess). This was Max's good deed for the day. After leading Foreman and House to a private back room with red velvet walls, a fully stocked bar, sectional sofa, and big screen TV, he left them to enjoy.

House was only supposed to get mildly wrecked at the club. The stopover was planned as a preamble to an evening of drunken abandon. But Anita chose this night to show up. Damn, Foreman hadn't seen her for a year and Max knew it, which is why he sent her to the party to mix and mingle. She sashayed into the room and that was all it took to shift Foreman's attention to...other things. After a short conversation, they retired to an even more private area (the deluxe 'bed and hot tub' combo), leaving House deep inside an aromatic fog of Sour Diesel, happily clicking away at the remote. When Foreman returned an hour later, the entire blunt, one and a half joints, a quarter of the 'couch pop', and three shot glasses of tequila were history.

_Pissed. _Wilson was definitely going to be pissed when he saw the condition House was in, but Chase wouldn't care. He would simply laugh, sit back and enjoy the show.

With some help from Max and Anita, Foreman managed to get the staggering, bleary eyed House through the parking lot and inside the BMW. After strapping him in for the drive, Foreman swore twice to the heavens, and drove off.

It was almost nine when they arrived at Gambini's. Getting House out of the car and helping him navigate across this more expansive parking lot was going to be a challenge but nothing Foreman couldn't handle.

_And away we go..._

House's lolly was stuffed firmly inside his mouth. The stick bob-bob-bobbed as he giggled and lurched along with a shuffling, jerky gait. Foreman ambled along beside him, ready and waiting to catch him if he toppled over. But, no. It didn't happen. The guy might be stone cold gone, but he was still an old pro at navigating under extreme circumstances.

House was still giggling when they reached the door. But when he noticed the scenery, he stopped abruptly, wobbled as he leaned on his cane and...just...stared. Yes, it was unusual to find a beautiful, olive skinned, exotic looking woman just...standing outside a restaurant, unescorted. She shouldn't be alone. A woman with her looks belonged on the arm of an oil tycoon or a sheik...or someone else who never had to worry about the price of gas.

Foreman couldn't blame House for ogling her. Hell, his own eyes were taking a little tour. Surely she must be used to this reaction. But if she was, she sure as hell wasn't enjoying it. Shifting uncomfortably, she averted her gaze, pulling her gray London Fog coat a little tighter around herself.

Sighing deeply, House pulled the lolly out of his face, holding one hand out to steady himself as he swayed against the brick wall next to the entrance. "Kinda warm for that coat."

The woman lifted her eyes, then squinted at him, the edge of her top lip curling into a sneer. "_You_ warm enough, Pancho?"

"Ah-ah-ah." House wagged a forefinger at her. "Tha' was pret-ty darn rude..."

"Come on, Casanova." Foreman pulled his own eyes away and prodded House by poking a finger into his back. "You're taken."

"Mmmph." He grinned a goofy grin, shoving the lolly back where it belonged. "Mmm hmm."

Foreman led House to the rear of the wood paneled dining area, where Wilson and Chase sat in a booth next to a massive fish tank. From the amount of empty beer bottles on the table and the way they were chuckling, Foreman knew they were feeling no pain. Two plates of chicken wings, a mushroom pizza and a tray laden with breaded, fried hors d'oeuvre things sat mostly untouched. Drinking had obviously been the night's main activity.

"Mission accomplished," Foreman announced, indicating House with a wave of his hand.

Wilson met Foreman's eyes and the laughter was abruptly sucked down a wormhole.

"You are so late." Wilson banged his beer bottle on the table. His glare could have sliced diamonds. "And look at _you_."

House blinked and smiled, seemingly unperturbed by the disgruntled greeting. He leaned hard on his cane, wobbled a little to the left, then steadied himself by rocking forward against the table. Finally he managed to ease himself into the chair opposite Wilson, where his attention was drawn to the colorful fish. Some were swimming or just drifting, others darted after one another in a merry game of tag.

With great care, he removed the lolly from his mouth, placed it in his shirt pocket and gave it a proprietary pat. His eyes traveled the length and width of the wondrous aquarium. "Fissssssssssssh!" he exclaimed.

"Are you...done?" Wilson's hair was more tousled than usual, looking like someone had given it an affectionate scrubbing.

"Heyyyy, Jimmy. Forget to mousse your hair? Never gonna impress the chicks looking all messy and uncombed like that" House snickered and weaved back and forth in his chair. He poked a finger at a clown fish and traced its path as far as he could reach without leaving his seat.

"Ohhh, like you're such a damn expert?"

"I'm gettin' married." House's intoned in a joyous singsong. "So I must have that...certain somethin'. You...think you're sooo cute with your dimples and your close shave and your _hair._ But just look who landed the girl."

"Sheesh."

"You know what your damn problem is?"

"I don' have a problem." Wilson snapped.

"Sure you do." Folding his hands on the table, House leaned forward and proclaimed, "You sir, are stinking drunk."

Chase guffawed. House joined in, lifting his brows almost to his hairline as he bobbed his head up and down and jabbed a taunting finger at Wilson. "Huh? Huh? Am I right?" His heavy lidded eyes shifted to Chase. "Tell me I'm right, pretty blonde intensiv-siv-ist."

"Oh, my god. Here we friggin' go." Foreman took a seat beside House and settled in for an interesting night.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

House liked this restaurant bar type place. The lights weren't too bright. That was good. Right now he could barely see straight, and if he had to squint through bright lights to see Wilson's somber, accusatory glare, he doubted he could do it. Terrible music though, some sensitive singer songwriter mush pouring through the speakers.

There were lots of folks here, lots of pretty people. No one as gaw-jus as that babe by the door but still...

Over at the bar, most of the drunks were shouting to each other, loudly discussing the Knicks game on the TV. Why do tanked people yell at each other? Was it to be heard? It wasn't _that_ raucous in here. Being stoned was mellower, so much better.

_Of course, you're much too wasted to shout._

Oh, and just look at that couple standing there, swilling their beers. They got matching leather jackets and Guess jeans on. How idiotic must they have sounded when they picked out their outfits for the evening? _Oooh, honey, let's wear this to the bar tonight. Okay, sweetums, let's._ Sooo fuckin' infuriating. He winced as his thoughts raged on. Those musings were much too loud for his 'fragile eggshell mind'. Jim Morrison sang about that. Yeah, he sang that song about ghosts and fragile eggshell minds. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. Morrison. Jimmy Wilson. House winked at Wilson, who sucked in a breath and rubbed the back of his neck, like all good little Jimmy Wilson's do.

_Mellow. Mellow out tone it down. _

But...but lookit. House's attention returned to the couple at the bar.

_Ye-esss. I see..._

The guy has his hand packed down into the ass pocket of his girl's Guess jeans. Frowning his disapproval, House clicked his tongue and grumbled aloud.

"What's wrong," Chase asked.

"See? Over there? I would never ever do that. Not in a public place."

"What?" Chase followed House's gaze toward the lovebirds. "Oooh, cool."

"Not cool, idiot. You're a low class moron." He glowered. "You'd do that to your girl?"

"What girl?"

House let out an exaggerated sigh. "Cam-er-on."

"Oh, she's not my girl."

"_She's not my girrrl," _House mimicked the Australian drawl, pretty damn pleased with the result. "You sneak out to plow her at lunchtime." He narrowed his eyes. "She's your girl."

"I wish." Chase suddenly looked sad.

"Idiot."

"House..." Wilson raised a finger.

"See now..." House saw Wilson's finger and raised one of his own. "I know how to treat a woman. Which is why I am getting married and you're all lying in your beds at night pulling your puds." He threw each of them a smug grin and sank back into his seat.

"There is great mystery here, House." Wilson proclaimed. "Mystery and wonder and a touch of Ripley's Believe It Or Not."

"Mmmm." House closed his eyes for a moment, hoping the room would maybe, perhaps, stop spinning.

_Say 'pretty please'..._

"The mystery is...what the hell does a woman like Myrna see in you?"

"Tell him, Chase." House murmured, rocking back and forth, his eyes still closed. He should really stop. If he stayed this way long enough, he might just fall asleep and what fun would that be?

"Tell him what?"

House glared at him. "Tell him that I am a man of quality...of integrity." He waved his arms, nearly knocking over one of the last standing beer bottles. "A great catch."

"Oh, my god." Chase snorted. "You _are_ stoned."

"You're drunk. That is so much worse." He shook his head many, many times. "Slobberin' and slurrin' your words. You'll be hung over in the morning. Ha! Not me...nooooo."

"No," said Wilson. "You just won't be able to move."

"They're funny, don't you think?" He slapped Foreman on the back as the waiter came by with another round of beers.

"Yo, Fauntleroy. Gimme a shot of Johnny Walker Red." House managed to clumsily snap, snap, snap his fingers at the waiter. "Neat."

The young man mouthed 'Fauntleroy' as he set the beers down. He quirked his lips, then threw a questioning look at Foreman.

"Why're you looking at him?" House asked. "You think he's the ventriloquist and I'm the dummy? Nooo, I'm no dummy. Nope. Now Foreman here, stick a hand up his back and watch him do the ol' soft shoe" House giggled. "Just call him Mistuh Bojangles..." He crooned the last two words, almost certain he was in key.

The waiter opened his mouth to speak, still staring at Foreman.

"Just...get him what he wants, Billy." Foreman quirked his head at House. "He's getting married in a couple of days."

"Why thank you papa-san. It warms my cockles to know you approve."

"He doesn't approve" Wilson took a long sip of his brew. "He thinks _you're_ nuts and that poor misguided girl you've somehow convinced to share your life... is just as nuts."

"Now why you wanna go and say stuff like that about Myrna?" House pulled the lolly from his pocket, and stared morosely at the small green nub that remained. There was blue lint on his lolly. Lint on his lolly. He liked that. It sounded _dirrrty._

"Because it's true," Wilson said.

Chase guffawed, turning his beer bottle round and around, making small wet rings on the table, while Foreman...just grinned.

"You want to know what your problem is?" House shoved the lolly back into his pocket. He _was _shouting now. Assman and his lady friend turned from the Knicks game to stare. "Your problem is...you don' know what it's like."

"I don'?" Wilson asked, reminding House of an inebriated Ricky Ricardo. Immediately, Chase croaked, then laughed so hard his neck and cheeks turned scarlet. He leaned over the table and covered his face, his shoulders bopping to the rhythm of his hilarity.

"No. You _don'_. But they do." He tossed a military style salute to the couple, who winced in unison before quickly returning their attention the game. "_They_ know what it's like."

"What?"

"You know."

"No, I don.'"

The waiter arrived with the Johnny Walker. House gulped it down, belched, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The room was spinning again. He clamped his fingers around the edge of the table and groaned softly before muttering, "Those kids...think they are in love. It may not be the case but...maybe...if they wish real hard...click their heels together three times..."

"_I_ know all about love." Wilson leaned back in his chair, and swigged down the rest of his brew. "I've been married three times and that makes me an expert."

"Twasn't love." House took a deep breath, riding out a wave of vertigo. It wouldn't be long until he found himself face down on the table. Until then, he would soldier on, gritting his teeth and wagging a finger at his friend. "Twasn't love. Your marriages...they din't last. Can't be love if it doesn't last."

"So you're saying you didn't really love Stacey."

"Tha's...fuckin' different." He threw Wilson a 'don't go there' look.

"You look a little green around the gills."

"That's 'cause I'm talkin' to you."

"You love Myrna? Or are you just curious about what this marriage thing is all about?"

"Tha's a really, really...stupid question." He closed his eyes, thinking how even the brightest people had a problem figuring which end was up sometimes. Did he have to spell everything out?

_Answer the question, genius._

He opened his eyes. His colleagues were silent, staring hard at him, waiting for his response like it held some importance. Hell, they didn't care about him. Not really. They were nosy bastards, digging for some nugget to satisfy their jones for gossip.

_How can a miserable bastard blessed with near zero social skills and a questionable eye for fashion land a decent woman? That is the fifty thousand dollar question. There has to be an ulterior motive. All cannot be as it seems. You're not going to convince them otherwise. Look at them, sitting there, so smug, godlike and all knowing. They think they have you pegged, old man... _

Hell, this thing isn't even going to last that long. Nine, ten years tops. He averted his gaze, focusing on the empty shot glass, the cooling hors d'oeuvres, the lights shining softly on the fallen beer bottles.

"Myrna...is...different".

"We've all said that about our women, House." Foreman said.

"You're sober. What the hell do you know?"

"Do you love her?" Wilson asked.

House shifted in his chair, his gaze falling on the pizza as he considered reaching for a slice. But surviving the ingestion of pizza along with the booze and marijuana combo might not be so easy. As it was, he was teetering on the edge of...a lot of things.

"Pancho, the man asked you a question."

He squinted up to see the lady who had snared his attention at the entrance to the restaurant. "We-ell, hellooo."

"You don't have an answer, you don't get the prize."

The London Fog coat parted slightly. Something glittered by her breasts. His gaze did a vertical glide and he caught a sweet glimpse of navel. "Huuuh..." The sound he made was like a soft sigh on a gentle breeze.

"Answer or I wrap myself up and go to another party."

"You can't," House blurted out. "These guys prob'ly paid you."

"That's alright." She set one hand on her hip. Her eyes, he noticed for the first time, were yellow gold. Cats eyes. "I can give a refund."

House let his eyes wander over her. Her coat was a curtain, pulling slowly back at the entr'acte. More of the sparkle was exposed now and a better view of her lovely belly, with her navel peeking shyly from the wings like a perfect jeweled eye. She wore no shoes.

"You're a belly dancer."

"Good guess." She clinked a pair of finger cymbals.

Gambini's had gone silent as a tomb. The Knicks game was on mute. Those who were dining set down their forks, the drinkers placed their glasses on coasters. All eyes were on House and...

"What's your name?"

"Does it matter, Pancho?"

"You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."

"Not interested in your name. I'm all for the truth, though."

"They put you up to this?" He jerked his chin toward his table mates.

"Of course." _Clink, clink. _"So you want a show?"

He opened his mouth, his initial inclination was to answer in the affirmative. But he didn't like the stipulations, didn't like the way he was being wheedled into doing something he didn't want to do. What was his was his. His thoughts on the matter of love verses lust and the frailties of the human heart were his business...and sometimes Myrna's, if she caught him in the right mood.

"Get out."

He could almost see the smugness (an impish, fiendish looking thingy) sprout wings and drift out and away from Belly Dancer's impressive body. Those wings were glittery, with tassels on the ends, making a _chi-chink_ sound as they fluttered, fluttered-

"House?" Wilson admonished softly, tugging the balloon string, bringing him back to earth. "This is a party, a celebration."

"It's ruined. Tha's...your fault, not mine." He might have stood if he didn't think the effort would have caused him to fall over. Too bad. His formidable height would have added so much to the intimidation factor. "And, wow, you're still here?" He threw the dancer an open mouthed look of astonishment.. "You must be foreign. You no unnerstan'?"

Her eyes flashed anger as she wrenched her coat around her, belting it tight. "I feel sorry for the girl getting stuck with you."

"Let's see...vamoose, scat, beat it." He ticked off each farewell on his fingers as he raised his eyes to the ceiling. But looking up was an unfortunate mistake. The moment his gaze hit the beams, the room seemed to..._breathe. _

_(Out with the bad...in with the good...)_

His thoughts became a whirlwind, a jumble of nonsense rhymes, colors and strange yellow gold sparks of light.

_(nothing is real...)_

It was the blunt talking, and the joints, and the tequila, a couple of Vicodin and, of course, Mr. Johnny Walker himself. Together they had clustered in a huddle, conspiring to bring...him...down.

_(...yeah, nothing to get hung about)_

He gripped the sides of his chair as the room tilted to one side then slow-ly to the other. Sinking back, he heard himself groan, the world seesawing up...and back...continuing on for what seemed like a long, long time. Really, it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Surrendering, allowing control to be completely and utterly snatched away was...kind of cool and was, in some strange way, a great relief.

Belly Dancer was sashaying toward the exit, her laughter melding with the concerned bleats of his table mates. The roar of the Knicks game and the whine of an obnoxious folksinger filled the air, kicking in suddenly, like they had just been released from a vacuum.

_Wave that white flag, old man. _

His forehead slammed against the polished oak table before he even realized he had keeled over. He grunted, moaned.

_But no pain, old man...no worries..._

And somewhere in the distance, above the ceiling beams, rooftops and clouds, finger cymbals _ca-chinked_ as gaw-jus glittery wings scooped him up and carried him far, far away.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-9-**

She usually liked this time of day. Early morning. Jonas, the janitor who had taken over Manuel's job (after Manuel's untimely death from the chemical burns he'd sustained in that supply closet mishap), was still hard at work, power waxing the floors. The sun had yet to fully crest over Princeton Plainsboro, and she had yet to take the first sip of her coffee.

If this was a usual morning, she would have been calmly reading the paper and sipping her brew, while waiting for her colleagues to shuffle into the diagnostics room. They would arrive as they always did: yawning, blinking those last few grains of sleep from their eyes, mumbling their tired hellos.

But this was anything but a mundane Thursday. It was the day after the debacle of Myrna's non-party. Cameron almost wished she could leave the two new case files for Chase and Foreman and let _them_ deal with House today. He was certain to be in rare form. His whiny little wench must have given him a real earful (okay, so she was not a wench and she was anything but whiny, but the bitter words just sounded so right...). And Cameron didn't feel like being on the receiving end of the vitriolic salvo that was going to come rolling off that acid tongue. Like a heat seeking missile it would hone in on her, spew its poison, and make her burn and bleed.

Cuddy had already done a remarkable job of cutting her down. After Myrna sauntered off, calmly disappearing into that cab and abandoning what was supposed to have been _her_ evening, Cuddy was fuming. And, really, Cameron couldn't blame her. Hell, if Cameron were in Myrna's position, she would have hightailed it home too. This silent admonition came hard enough; no way was she going to let Cuddy in on it.

So she took her medicine, grimaced and pouted and made all the Cam faces expected of her. And as they drove home, Cuddy fell into a heavy, sulking silence and finally left her alone.

But Cuddy's diatribe was nothing compared to what House was sure to dish out. Hopefully she could get Chase and Foreman on her side; maybe they could defuse the situation.

Morning was coming on quickly, dragging along with it a barrow full of Anxieties: lovely blooms for Cam to care for and cultivate. _The gift that keeps on giving_. Grey strips of daylight backlit the blinds. The white board cast a dull shadow against the carpet. Suddenly he was there: twirling his cane, one hip jutting out, his left leg set straight and strong, taking the brunt of his weight. His left arm would be slung over the board, his thumb rubbing his ring finger as he...stared...and stared, those ridiculously expressive eyes boring into hers. And he wouldn't flinch, wouldn't move, wouldn't say a word. The eyes would do it all, tearing at her, reducing her to rubble...

Her stomach churned (the Anxieties were blooming nicely). Eddies of steam rose from her Styrofoam cup, urging her to drink up. But the thought of hot liquid pouring down her gullet made her eyes water. She rubbed her forehead and took a perfunctory look at the top file. Thirty seven year old male, unexplained seizures, no history of epilepsy...

The door opened. She gasped, flinched, her right hand jerking against her coffee cup. The cup toppled over, her brew spilling over the files, splashing against her left hand, singeing the skin. Tan streams flowed merrily across the legal pad.

"Oh...fuck." She grabbed a thin napkin that had escaped saturation, pressed it against her pain...and sobbed.

"Hey."

With some trepidation, she raised her eyes then hissed her relief. It wasn't _him._ Thank God it wasn't _him._ If he saw her this way it would just add fuel to his fire. It would goddamn make his whole day.

"Hey, what's up?" Chase smiled at her, concern in his eyes. He shrugged off his pack and set it on the floor. "You okay?"

"Uh, I don't really know..."

_Such a pretty boy...caring, considerate lover...wanting so much to please...disgusting the way you treat him..._

"Well, let me help clean this up a bit." He made a quick jaunt to the coffee maker, grabbed some paper towels from beside the machine and wet them in the sink.

Cameron hiccupped another sob and hung her head. The sound of him fussing around, working to fix what ailed her was sweet. But it would take more than cool water on paper towels and an earnest intensivist to make everything right.

He was back, wielding a wad of wet towels like a trophy. With his free hand he lifted the file folders and set them on a dry area of the long table, then tossed the coffee soaked legal pad in the waste basket. He wiped down the table, balled up the coffee saturated towels in both hands, and threw them in the trash. "Six points and the crowd goes wild," he exclaimed. His smile was open; his eyes were somewhat bloodshot but clear. He threw her an expectant look, hoping for a laugh. But as much as she wanted to appease him, she just couldn't make it happen.

Chase pulled up a chair and sat beside her. "So?"

The whole place smelled like damp coffee grounds left too long inside a can. It wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't such a clear reminder of her gaffe. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For treating you so crappy."

He laughed and shrugged at the same time, which made him look like a cheery marionette. "It's my own fault for wearing my heart on my sleeve."

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "I know."

"How's your hand?"

"Oh." Gingerly she lifted the napkin away from her skin. "It's just a little burn."

He was off again, scrounging through a small metal supply cabinet by the sink. As she watched him, she absently ran two fingers over the quarter sized patch of red, then hissed and drew them back. The skin was tender to the touch.

He hurried back, holding a blue bowl half filled with water. Between two fingers he clasped a small silver tube. A washcloth lay over his wrist. With his smile and white lab coat, he looked like a country club waiter. "Here we are." He set the items down. "Lay your hand flat in the water."

A smile played around her lips and she thought to hide it. But he was being kind and she knew he would take pleasure in her amusement. She set her smile free, placing her hand gently in the bowl. The water rose to cover her hand.

They were silent as the coolness worked its magic, seeping its way into the heart of the irritation.

"Better?" he asked.

She bit her lip and nodded slowly, feeling good, feeling secure. She was four years old again and her father was humming, gently washing and bandaging the skinned knee she'd gotten from falling off her bike.

"Okay, let's see." Chase, said, killing the memory. He opened his hand and placed it face up on the table. "Put your palm against mine."

Obedient as a trusting patient, she set her hand in his. Chase used the cloth to pat the small burn dry, then squeezed a thin line of ointment onto the skin. Already the redness had faded to a dull pink.

"Work that in good."

Using a light touch, she rubbed the ointment into her skin, her hand remaining inside his. "Thanks," she said.

"No problem."

They sat this way for a while-Cameron continuing to rub her hand even after the ointment had been absorbed. Chase watched her, offering up a soft smile.

"So...you want to talk about it? he asked.

"About...what?"

"About...what's wrong?"

"Bad night," She made a valiant attempt to maintain her smile, even as her throat constricted. Those waterworks were roiling behind her eyes, impatient to flow again. "Just a really bad night."

"We all have 'em, but..." One brow shot up. "...weren't you and Cuddy supposed to take Myrna out?"

"Yeah, it was a fiasco." Her fingers stopped their anointing, her hand settling in her lap. "My fault."

Chase sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "I see."

She hefted her shoulders, allowing her gaze to drift over the steadily brightening room. "When House shows up he is _not_ going to be a happy camper."

"Really?"

"My fault...again." Her eyes locked on his. They were red-rimmed and more bloodshot than she had at first thought. "I...said some things to Myrna I shouldn't have."

"Isn't that always the way?" He pressed a finger to his lips, seeming to suppress a smile.

"You're laughing at me."

"No, no, I'm not...really." He snorted out a laugh.

"What do you call _that_?"

"I call it having some good news for you." He leaned forward and touched her chin.

"Stop that." She glowered, jerking her head away.

"You'll like this."

"Alright." She heaved a heavy sigh. "What?"

"He's not coming in..."

Cameron's mouth fell open. The Anxiety blooms wilted and swayed, each one blackening and dying in turn. "You're...kidding. Right?"

He grabbed a pencil, turned it over and over with two fingers. "Last night, Foreman brought House to some private club, got him so stoned he could hardly walk. Then, at the restaurant, House had a shot of Johnny Walker, he was sucking on a lolly that was loaded with cannabis. I'm sure he had some Vicodin in him." Chase threw her a wicked look. "He passed out, hit his head against the table..." He made a whistling bomb noise through his teeth. "Totally gone."

"Oh, my god." She couldn't help snickering. "Is...he okay?"

"Su-ure, he's fine. Cuddy's giving him the next two days off to recuperate before the wedding."

"That's good," she said.

"Yeah?"

"That is very, very good."

"You're smiling."

She touched his hand. "Your fault."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The events of the previous evening might as well have happened in a distant galaxy. They were of little consequence compared to everything else that was going on. Actually, if she put her mind to it, Myrna could easily pretend they never happened at all. Yeah. It was that simple. Maybe she wouldn't even tell Greg...

But she had to tell him. He would hear about it from everyone else. And how would that look? Getting the scoop on his future wife's messed up bachelorette party from everyone but his future wife was just...wrong.

But she didn't want Greg to be angry with Cameron. His rage wouldn't solve anything. It certainly wouldn't change the events of last night. After all, the two of them still had to work together. And Myrna didn't want to be the 'Yoko Ono' of the diagnostics department. She didn't want Greg's co-workers thinking she had some sort of influence over how he acted on the job. He was on his own when it came to that.

Myrna stood at the side of the bed, staring down at _her_ future, watching him sleep. He had an angry looking bruise in the center of his brow, the result of his forehead making a solid connection with the table at Gambini's. His scruff was thicker than usual. Usually he groomed it before going to bed, thinning it just enough so it didn't look like a beard in the morning. Maintaining that shabby look actually require some effort. But last night he sure wasn't thinking about his electric razor. He wasn't thinking about the care and feeding of his scruff. He probably wasn't thinking about anything at all (nothing that made sense, anyway).

Almost six hours had passed since Chase, Foreman and Wilson hauled Greg into the apartment, Chase securing him beneath one arm, Wilson the other. Lugging him toward the bedroom, they slurred their apologies to Myrna. Foreman, looking amused and cocksure, stood off to one side, folded his arms, and...enjoyed the scene.

The toes of Future Husband's Nikes dragged along the carpet; his chin bounced against his chest. He was barely conscious, yet he was croaking out some ridiculous song: something about blaming the bossa nova. And he stunk like stale booze, marijuana and old sweat.

Sometime after he came back to earth, Myrna planned to inform him that stinking like the inside of Jerry Garcia's trailer circa 1969 was not really something to aspire to. Yes, she actually did know who Jerry Garcia, The Grateful Dead, The Jefferson Starship and all those hippy guys were. Flower power, like much of the pop culture before her time, intrigued her.

She reckoned she had been blessed with an old soul. Greg enjoyed being able to ramble on about the 'old days' and see honest fascination in her eyes.

Watching him while he slept was a rare indulgence for her. With their staggered schedules these moments were few and far between. He looked...peaceful, despite the purplish bruise. His head was tilted slightly to one side, mouth slack, top teeth barely showing, his leg pain probably a ghost in the distance, biding its time, lying in wait.

Too bad she had to wake him.

Hitching her purse a little higher on her shoulder, she reached down to touch his shoulder.

"Mmmm. You wearin' your Sunday-Go-To-Meeting scent?"

A slow smile crossed her face. She drew back her hand as he peeked at her through one half opened eye.

"_Cerulean._ You...only wear it for...special occasions, meetings with the boss, Frannie's pilgrimage to the great state o' New Jersey...those wild dates with me."

"Wild?"

"...swingin' on the chandeliers..."

"You're a mess."

Managing a weak smirk, he croaked, "You noticed. How sweet."

"How's your head?" She tousled his hair.

"Ju-ust ducky."

"Truth?"

"...feel like someone stomped on my frontal lobes with stiletto heels." He arched a brow. "T'wasn't you, girly, was it?"

"My stiletto pumps are in the shop. Must be some other kinky damsel out to win your heart."

"You're the only dominatrix for me." He wrenched open the other eye. "Oooh, looky, looky, You are wearin' a dress." He cocked his head to the side, his eyes doing a slow walk all over her. "A new one. I like the buttons." He patted the area next to him. "Sit."

"Greg..."

"Siddown."

Expelling a long breath, she sat.

"Gooood." His hands began their journey, running between her thighs, up over her stomach, trailing languidly across her breasts until they reached the top button of her dress.

"Listen."

"Hmmmm?" He started the unbuttoning process, but his fingers fought him all the way. The first button slipped from his grasp twice before he managed to push it through the buttonhole.

"I have good news," she said, thinking maybe she should stop him. Really, there wasn't time for this. But... it wouldn't hurt to let him continue...just a little while longer.

"Me too."

"Oh, yeah?" she said. "What's yours?"

He was on the second button now, his face a mask of concentration.

"Earth to Greg..."

"Only...seven more buttons 'til I see your bra."

"That's your good news?" she asked.

"Mmmph." Suddenly he winced, letting out a long moan, His hands fell away, dropping onto the blanket; his head lolled against the pillow. One hand traveled slowly down the cottony landscape to his right thigh, alternately pressing and rubbing the area.

She didn't have to be told or asked. She knew the routine. Pressing her lips together, she pulled open the nightstand drawer. Her fingers scrabbled past the cuffs and leather restraint to reach one of three amber vials of Vicodin kept there. She popped the cap with her thumb and spilled three pills into her hand. "Water?"

"Unnh." He made an almost desperate 'gimme' motion with his fingers. Pain had turned his eyes a steely greyish blue.

She dropped the pills into his waiting palm and he _pushed_ them against his open mouth, his hand trembling as he dry swallowed.

It took a moment for the world to settle back into place. Greg closed his eyes for what seemed like a long time and Myrna knew he was waiting for the sharp edges to dull. Yes, the meds were definitely doing the job; she recognized the signs: the way his eyebrows lifted, how his lips parted, how his fingers relaxed their grip on the blanket, told her the pain was in the process of packing its overnight bag. Not that there was much packing to do. Soon enough it would be back.

When he opened his eyes they were glassy pools. One side of his mouth gave a small twitch, then hitched up. Pain had left the building.

"See what you're getting yourself into?" he said.

"What?" She capped the vial and tucked it back into the drawer.

"You could have been getting a big hello from Mr. Morning Wood instead you're shoving pills at me."

"It's okay." She touched his cheek, then placed her hand in her lap.

"No, it's not." He gave her an appreciative once over. "Soo, how was _your_ night?"

"You don't want to know."

"How many g-strings did you snap?"

"None. I cooked up some pasta and watched a Star Trek thrifecta on the Sci-fi Channel..."

The stoned glaze in his eyes morphed into a sharp glare. His brow furrowed as he hitched himself up on his elbows. "You didn't go?"

"I went but felt a little uncomfortable around Cam. So I left early. But...it'll be fine."

Those wheels were turning, Myrna could tell. She didn't want to talk about this, didn't want to get into it at all.

"She ruined your night," he said, vengeance simmering in his tone.

"She didn't ruin anything." Myrna averted her eyes, took in a breath, then exhaled slowly. "I could have tried to pretend she was tolerable." She met his eyes again. "I just didn't want to. It was all me."

"No. It wasn't all you."

She held up one hand, closed her eyes. "There...are more important things, Greg. I have to meet the movers at the apartment in an hour. My mother and brother are landing in Newark at three..."

"Help me up." She stood and stared at him for a moment before taking his hand and holding it tight. Using his free hand, he pushed the blankets off himself and turned to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Don't you want to hear your good news?" she asked.

"What?"

She was usually good at reading him. But it was difficult now; he wouldn't meet her eyes. Instead, he stared hard at the wall, his jaw working the way it did when he was lost in thought.

"Cuddy gave you the rest of the week off." Her voice was soft. "You don't go back until I do, after the honeymoon."

He looked at her then, eyes narrowing a millimeter as he pulled her close. He wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and laid her head against his shoulder.

"Looofoo," he mumbled into her hair.

Myrna pulled back and wrinkled her nose. "You smell like the morning after at Grace Slick's house.

He pressed his lips gently against hers, touching her teeth with his tongue. The feel of heavier scruff against her upper lip was nice. Really nice. It made her want to push him back onto the bed and dive in after him.

"Looofoo," he reiterated into her mouth. His breath was hot and rank, tasting like sour ash. For some reason, this turned her on even more.

"What?" She placed her hands against his shoulders, and pushed away, giving herself some distance. Tilting her head, she offered him a bemused grin.

His gaze rose to the ceiling, then made its way down to the carpet before landing on Myrna's two unbuttoned buttons. He puffed out his cheeks, and after letting them slowly deflate, he muttered, "...love you."

For a moment she forgot how to breathe.

_The old in-out. What's not to know?_

"Ohhh," she said, finally.

Their hands were still clasped as he stood. But he broke the connection as he hobbled past her to grab his cane. "Gotta pee," he said, lumbering off.

She took one shaky breath, then another. In and out. Rinse and repeat. Checking herself in the dresser mirror, she ran a trembling hand through her hair, then shakily buttoned the top two buttons of her dress.

_...love you..._

She said it all the time. But he...

Tears pricked her eyes. She bit her lower lip.

She heard the sound of the toilet flush as she quickly reapplied her lipstick. This was ridiculous. She was absolutely giddy, like a girl at her first prom, like a homecoming queen, like the time she was nine and won musical chairs at Megan Ann's birthday party.

_...love you..._

He said the words.

_Finally. _


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Ah, yes, there is a wealth of Myrna, Frannie and Georgie in this chapter. But it's necessary to get to know Myrna's family to _really_ understand what House is in for. These guys are lots of fun, believe me. Plus, because you've all been so good, you get a sweet dollop of House and Wilson in the second half of the chapter. Happy reading.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-10-**

Myrna heard them before she saw them. Despite the amount of people moving along, hurrying on their way, intent on reuniting with family and friends or making it to that special destination. she heard_...them!_ It was not a special talent; more a burden than a gift. It was like being attuned to a brewing storm, the electricity in the air causing your nerves to rattle and the hair on your arms to stand on end.

They were here...somewhere...looking for her.

Standing a little to the left and a little to the rear of the airport waiting area, Myrna bopped up and down on her toes, eyes grazing the action. So many footsteps, so many heels clicking against the tiles. But there were no treads like Mom's treads. The insistent _tick-clack _of heel and toe was like a damned metronome set to _andante_. Moderate, never changing. Those carefully regulated footfalls were drawing nearer, growing more distinct. Myrna swallowed hard, sensing their vibrations deep inside her gut. _Tick-clack, tick-clack._ _Frannie's on her way, Georgie right behind_, _tickety, tickety clack_.

Georgie. Myrna could almost see her brother shuffling along, taking up the rear, digging how the soles of his Converse All-Stars squeaked against the waxed tile flooring. He was in no hurry. He would lag behind simply to irritate his mother. Myrna knew he would rather be back in Minneapolis with his boys. The only reason he agreed to make the trip was because he actually kind of liked his big sister.

_Then..._

Myrna heard the unmistakable sound of her mother scre-e-eching a complaint. It was horrible, like a fingernail making a slow, excruciating path down a blackboard. Even the most attention deficit youngster might have turned and gawped at this bleating woman. Myrna took one step forward, then froze. Before revealing her misfortune by association, Myrna decided to conduct a silent ten count. Hopefully she could get her cheeks to stop burning before joining the embarrassment that was her family.

The Frannie screech blared again like an emergency siren wailing in the center of town. This time there was a communal hum of laughter in response. Myrna was only up to 'eight' but she cut the count short before some Samaritan summoned security. Heart pounding, mouth going dry, she pushed and elbowed her way through the throng and, well, _hello, sunshine_, here's Mom.

Mom was on her hands and knees, frantically scrabbling around a small patch of floor. A plastic cosmetic bag (its merry pink floral pattern mocking Frannie's ire) lay open by her feet. Across its oblong window was a tread of a shoe, or sneaker, or maybe a ballet slipper. Who knew? Lovely lipsticks, eye shadows and other beauty paints usually lived comfortably behind that window but they were now on the ground. Somehow they'd been unceremoniously dumped. A lipstick rolled just out of Frannie's reach. She grunted and hitched her body forward, her fingers clawing...ju-st missing it. A woman with violet hair and a pantsuit to match, bent over and snagged the tube. She shoved it into her jacket pocket before disappearing into the crowd. Myrna's mouth fell open in silent protest.

Frannie was a bit more vocal.

"Hey...HEY!"

Frannie was livid. That..._look_, that goddamn 'mom' face struck Myrna like a fist in the breastbone. The rage that had transformed Frannie's into something alien, into this pucker faced..._creature,_ was all too familiar. It made Myrna feel she had never left Minnesota. Never met Greg House. Her initial reaction was to do what she always did back home: turn and hightail it out of there.

"Security!" Frannie squawked. Sniggers were all she received for her trouble.

Myrna gritted her teeth and took one slow step backward...

(_let's play pretend...the woman is a stranger...never saw her before...you can walk away...walk away...walk away)_

...pressing against someone who wasn't in much of a hurry to move out of her path. She whipped around to meet the leer of a fiftysomething year old guy wearing a dress shirt and chinos. His hand was low, brushing her thigh. Again and again and again.

"Godammit," Myrna pressed her lips together and ground a heel into the toe of the guy's shoe. He let out a surprised yelp and melted into the throng.

_Here there be monsters..._

Her hands were trembling as she placed them against her face. "Oh, my god," she mumbled, peering at her mother from between her fingers.

Frannie was standing now, breathing hard, the makeup kit tucked under her arm, a carry on bag hitched over her shoulder. The kit had been restocked with its Maybelline and Clinique, everything except for that one missing lipstick (which Myrna was certain she would hear about forever and ever and always). Mom remained rooted to the spot, her jaw clenching, those eyes twitching, searching, like a bird scoping out its dinner...

"_Wanna go home_," Myrna's inner child whined.

_Step up, young lady. You don't have a choice in the matter._

"Mom."

Her mother's eyes stopped their skittering and settled on her. They widened in surprise, the hazel darkening to a muddy green as her anger flared again. "Do you know _why_ I never like to go anywhere with your brother?"

That voice...ugh, that _voice. _It was three octaves too high, drilling into Myrna's head. The too familiar sound caused Myrna lips to peel back into a grimace.

"He has absolutely no regard for other people's property."

"Where's Georgie, Mom?" Myrna asked through her teeth.

Frannie pushed the carry on bag at Myrna, who gripped it tightly, then, with some effort, slung it over her shoulder. Its weight made her stumble forward a step. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that the entire contents of Frannie's medicine chest were inside that damn carry-on.

"I told him to stop twirling the makeup bag. Told him, pleaded with him, _begged _him."

They were the circus sideshow, the free entertainment before the appearance of the lions and tigers and bears appeared (_oh, my)._ Myrna attempted to avert her gaze from the stares of the passersby but it was almost impossible. They were waiting for another blow-up, hoping and wishing for Frannie to lose it again. They jostled Myrna, brushed against her without cause. One or two hissed a disconcerting comment (_wanna gun? do the world a favor...sign the commitment papers)._

"Where...is...George?" Myrna asked, keeping as much of her composure as she was able.

_"Fffft. _He doesn't want to be seen with me. Didn't even want to get on the plane. Of course not.Anything to give his mother a hard ti-"

"WHERE IS HE?"

Someone applauded, someone else joined in. Now a small choir of well wishers was cheering her on. The slow handclaps caused Myrna's temples to throb in time with the beat. Hanging her head, she gave herself a silent reprimand for surrendering to their goading, for losing it.

When she met her mother's eyes again, they were tear filled. "You don't have to yell at me, Myrna. We came all this way to see you."

"I know, I know." She took Frannie by the arm and pulled her down the wide corridor, keeping in step with the throng, becoming part of it.

_If you can't beat 'em, you gotta damn well join 'em._

"Let's go see, Georgie, okay?" Frannie was a head shorter than she, making Myrna feel like she was hauling a petulant child off for a reprimand. "Where is he?"

"I think he said he was hungry," Frannie pressed two tremulous fingers against her brow, continuing to match Myrna's steps, stride for stride. "_After_ he twirled that bag one too many times and sent it flying."

_Straight ahead...there's your signpost. _

A trio of bistros was coming up hard on their right. Myrna could see the McDonald's arches, a red-yellow neon _Soup To Go _sign and an _Au Bon Pain_ bakery. Giving Frannie's arm a tug, Myrna led her toward the McDonald's.

"And that horrible witch stole _your_ lipstick," Frannie groaned. "_Fffft! _Fifteen bucks down the tubes. You could have used that lipstick on your wedding day."

"I _have_ lipstick, Mom." They strode beneath the golden arches and entered the Land of Sodium and Bad Cholesterol.

"You always wear that terrible wine red color." Frannie wrinkled her nose. "It makes you look like a trollop." She glanced down at Myrna's left hand. "Where's your ring?"

_Omigod, here it comes. _"What ring?"

"Your engagement ring."

"I didn't want one."

Frannie's lips puckered like she had just consumed a lemon, rind and all.

Myrna explained further. "I didn't need one. By the time I got it sized I'd be married."

"You mean to say," Frannie shook a finger under Myrna's nose. "you're marrying a _doctor_ and he didn't even bother to-"

"Don't." A single word and an intimidating arch of a brow could speak volumes. If done correctly, the unsuspecting victim might lose her nerve and just...shut...up. This was a lesson from the Greg House School of Besting the Best. And judging by the way her mother (herself an expert in the dark arts of pestering and goading) clammed up, Myrna had to say that Greg was an excellent teacher.

The place was bustling. Queues were five deep at the registers, and almost every table was occupied. To the immediate right sat two adults and two toddlers, their table rife with sippy cups and soggy remnants of burgers. Wrappers and fries were strewn everywhere. To their left was a yuppie couple, daintily downing their walnut and cranberry salads, probably proud of how health conscious they were and the wise meal choice they'd made. But really, they probably would have given their BMW for a Quarter Pounder or a mayo drenched Big Mac. Oh, yes, back in that far corner was a sweet looking elderly couple sipping coffee and eating chicken sandwiches. And beyond them, around that corner, way, way back in the very last booth...

Myrna craned her neck and spied Georgie seated across from two Hispanic girls. One possessed a wide, flat nose and thick brows, looking like the runt of the litter next to her companion. The other girl, the one with the coy smile and hair the color of chestnuts seemed to have Georgie wrapped around her pretty little pinkie.

"Mom, go snag a booth over there by the entrance," Myrna said quickly.

"Isn't that George?"

"I'm hungry, aren't you?"

"We have to go to baggage claim," Frannie whined.

"We'll do that after..."

"What the hell is he doing?" This was Frannie's specialty. The 'ominous' tone. It started out low and close to the ground, then climbed to the tippity-top of the sound spectrum. She took two steps toward that back booth but Myrna clamped a hand on one of her bony shoulders, holding her in place. Surprisingly, Frannie made no move to shrug her off.

"Get us a table, Mom. Willya?"

"You don't even know what I want to eat."

"Then tell me or... I'll surprise you."

They locked eyes. Frannie's recently plucked brows pointed south. "Quarter Pounder. No onions."

Myrna watched her mother turn, _tick-clack_ down the aisle and claim a booth closer to the front of the restaurant. Frannie's dye job took pretty well this time: it was a burnt orange hue, which looked good even under the harsh fluorescents. Last time Myrna saw Frannie, the woman had that Lucille Ball look going on: loud, brassy and carrot topped. A new stylist must have suggested she tone it down for the wedding. And Frannie had actually listened? Maybe the old girl was mellowing...

_...and maybe the world was a happy, happy place, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies..._

From the back corner booth came an explosion of giggles interspersed with snatches of rhymes. Georgie was dressed to kill. A modern day lothario. baseball cap on backwards, Lakers jersey, white shorts and socks, bright white Converse sneaks. He was dazzling. His notebook was open on the table. Each girl had a large soda in front of her, most likely courtesy of the 'rap kid'. Georgie, or MC "G" as he was dubbed by his boys, must be sharing his latest rhymes. _This was not good_, Myrna thought, putting on some speed. He'd never want to leave now.

George _was _deep in rhyming mode. His words flowed off his tongue, staccato, assured, his fingers dancing, gesticulating to the rhythm. His lady friends were bobbing their heads, moving their shoulders to the beat. They were smiling, coquettish, gold earrings swinging as they swayed. It was a modern day mating ritual.

He _was_ good. Myrna was loathe to interrupt but she had to play the adult, had to move in cold.

"Hey, Georgie."

He flicked her a half look that said 'chill', his mouth still going and going, like an Energizer bunny on speed.

She tapped her foot and exhaled softly, responding to his demand with a silent entreaty.

Soon the words slowed, the fingers drifted against his notebook, and his work was done. "Aw...fuck, Myrna." He threw her a disgruntled look. "Why'd you have to come along now?"

"Gee, Georgie. It's nice to see you too."

Chestnut Hair whispered something to her friend, then gazed at Georgie with fannish adoration. Smirking, he flipped his notebook shut. "Gotta go." He winked at the Latin beauty. "I'll text you sometime."

"Promise, Georgie?"

"Oooh, yeah, baby doll. And you know what? That last rap, the one you thought was fresh, damn, that's for you, baby. Always gonna be."

In another moment the girl would be a puddle.

"Come on, George."

"This is my sister, Myrna. She's getting married." He winked at his fans as he grabbed his notebook and slid out of the booth. "Gettin' it all the time. Doin' it well."

"George!"

"Fuck, yeah, it's true and you know it." He fell into step next to Myrna and let one arm fall over her shoulders. At sixteen, he was a six foot, stocky, sandy haired half a boy and half a man. "It's all good?"

"It's all good."

"Aw, hell...look at her."

Their mother was babbling to herself, her fingers drifting over the contents of the makeup case. She had the tubes, brushes, jars and bottles lined up end to end on the table.

Myrna rushed forward, pushing through a small pocket of incoming diners before reaching the table. Breathless, she leaned over to touch her mother's arm. "Mom..."

"Sssh! Can't you see I'm counting? ...6...7...8..."

Georgie snapped, "Everything is goddamn in there, Ma."

"Hah! How would you know? This is all your fault. ...9...10..."

"Maybe we should just go," Myrna said, moving to gather up the brushes, foundations, lipsticks and eye shadows.

Frannie slapped a hand on top of Myrna's. "I am counting. Got to make sure nothing else is missing. A single lipstick is one thing, more than that and we can get a lawyer, sue the airport." She shoved Myrna's hand away and continued.

"But mom, don't you want to go to the hotel, have a hot shower, a really nice meal...?"

"We're not going to the hotel after this, Myrna."

"Goddamn," Georgie hissed, rolling his eyes and slapping his notebook against his thigh.

"Then...where _are_ we going...Mom?"

Frannie spread her long fingers protectively over the makeup and raised her eyes slowly to meet Myrna's. There was a light in her mother's eyes, a disturbing, vengeful light Myrna had never seen before.

"I want to meet the man, this big shot _Doctor _Gregory House who so wants to marry my daughter but wheedled out of getting her an engagement ring." A slow smile formed, a companion to the unforgiving glare. "He thinks he can get away with not treating you properly?" She sniffed. "Well, he hasn't met me yet."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What _is _this?"

Wilson looked up from arranging the napkins, paper plates and bottles of beer on the coffee table. "Crust, mozzarella cheese, tomato sauce, mushrooms." He placed a forefinger to his temple. "Um...pizza?"

"Why, that's amazing." House settled on the arm of the sofa, scrutinizing the half eaten slice that rested on the plate in his hand. "It has the right look and texture but one bite'll tell you..." He winced. "...it's not."

Wilson lifted a slice from the box and bit off the string cheesy end. He chewed and swallowed, throwing House an accusatory glare. "It's pizza, and it's good."

"No. Any idiot can mix dough, sauce and cheese together, shove it in an oversized oven and say they made a pizza. Self assured morons who open pizza restaurants are like sandlot ball players who get the notion they're pros. They suck and so does this crappy pie." He leaned over, dropped the plate on the table, then reached for a beer. "I _know_ you went to that new place with the flags and streamers hanging off the awning."

"Oh, so that's it."

"That's not _it."_

"God forbid we shift the planets around a little, try something new."

"Hey, I'm all for trying new things." House sipped at his brew with a bit less gusto than the night before. "I am getting married, aren't I?"

"Yeah." Wilson took another bite of his slice. "I still haven't figure that out."

House had languished in the apartment most of the day, going back to bed after Myrna left. Vicodin, his stalwart friend, did the job, as always, tamping the combination head and leg throb so neither became a miserable, intolerable ache. The effect of the pills combined with the remnants of last night's stony misadventure, eased him back into sleep. Two hours later, the movers woke him, hauling in the last of Myrna's _dowry_, piling the cartons against the wall between the kitchen and living room. It was her _stuff_ and House got a charge out of teasing her about it. She really seemed to treasure the mementos she'd salvaged: a bunch of knick-knacks, letters, jewelry and photos that chronicled almost every one of her twenty eight years. Nearly twice her age, House didn't possess nearly as many reminders of his past. And he considered that a good thing.

When Wilson rolled in around five o'clock, House was teetering on the narrow precipice of boredom. So the surprise visit was a welcome diversion. Of course, House didn't reveal his delight. In fact, he did his best to look annoyed. No sense in giving Wilson a swelled head.

"Face, it. I'm human after all."

"For some reason you've become curious about commitment. Again." Wilson shook his head, throwing House a dubious look. "I have to admit. This really has me stymied."

"We've been all over this too many times. It's getting old. Boring." House flopped next to Wilson on the sofa, resting his right leg on the coffee table. "I've told you everything I'm going to."

"It troubles me you haven't mentioned the most important reason for taking this huge step."

"I haven't?" House ran his hand between the sofa cushions and dug out the remote.

"You know, the reason people get together, the reason people want to stay with each other 'til death..."

"Fabulous sex?" Having a next of kin to list on employment records?" House scrolled down his Tivo list, stopped at "Rear Window" and let the movie play.

"Love."

House drew the bottle to his lips while throwing his friend a sidelong glance. "And how many times were you conned into saying the words?"

"This isn't about me."

After taking a long swig, House banged the bottle on the table then wiped his hands on his sweat pants. "I'm getting married because _I_ want to and she wants to. That should be enough to satisfy anyone's insane curiosity."

"You know," Wilson leaned over and picked up a beer. "a real relationship with a lovely woman has not mellowed you at all."

"Just because you get married doesn't mean you change."

"Most people do."

"When have I ever been _most people? _House groused.

Wilson sighed.

They fell into a companionable silence, watching the wheelchair bound Jimmy Stewart peer out his bedroom window through high powered binoculars. Grace Kelly was softly smiling, sitting by his side, trading quips and kisses with that lucky guy for the camera.

Gesturing at the screen, House said, "That could be me."

"Yeah, right. The only thing you have in common with Jimmy Stewart is the gray in your hair."

With an emphatic _harumph_, House leaned closer to his friend. "That _could _be me, wheelchair bound, Myrna indulging my whims, bringing me food."

A slow smile spread across Wilson's face as he turned to his friend. "And she would do this because..." With a flourish, he gestured at House to take the floor.

"Because she wants to."

"Because..."

"I told you."

"Dammit, you're some piece of work. You can't even say the words."

"She _loves _me." He felt the veins in his neck strain with the force of his exclamation. "Alright? Happy now?"

"No. Now it's your turn."

House was fuming. He folded his arms, clenched his jaw and forced his gaze back on the film. No way was he going to say the words his friend wanted to hear. Myrna had heard them and that was enough. It had been difficult enough wrenching them out of himself for her...

"You were right, you know," Wilson said, reaching over and flipping the lid of the pizza box closed.

House threw him a sidelong glance. "About what?"

"The pizza," he said. "It was awful."

"_You_ insisted it was good."

"I came clean. Now it's your turn."

Despite his annoyance, House couldn't help chuckling. "Watch the damn movie."

The apartment door rattled open just as Jimmy Stewart caught Raymond Burr doing something hinky in the front garden. Three extremely disgruntled looking folk almost fell over each other in their efforts to enter House's living room. One was lovely, familiar and very welcome. The other two?

_Well, now, let's see..._

The kid with the Lakers jersey and baseball cap (gotta be the brother) graced House with a look, the kind of look that usually gave House cause to let a few choice comments fly.

_Yeah, old man, you're going to deal with this one later._

But the woman. _Frannie. _Ohhh, yeah. Now..._she_ was really something. The kid had nothing on her. _Frannie Bromfeld. _Her mouth was set in a wicked, witchy pout, lips puckering like she had just kissed a frog. Eyes were hazel-green like her daughter's, which was as far as the family resemblance seemed to go.

_Nothing kind or loving about this one. She is the definitive piece of work._

Myrna and baby brother froze by the door as Mommy stomped over to the coffee table. She threw House a perfunctory sneer but she seemed to be all about Wilson. Her expression softened as she met his eyes.

"Why...hello," she said.

Wilson offered a tentative smile. "Hello."

"I'm Frannie. It's nice to finally meet you," she said with an almost girlish lilt in her voice.

"Oh, well, same here, ma'am." He got to his feet, throwing House a distressed, wide eyed 'help me out here' look.

She sighed, taking the hand he offered. "Well, at least you're well mannered, even if you don't have a clue how to handle an engagement." Rubbing her chin, she allowed a smile to steal across her face. "I have to say that it's nice my daughter's finally getting a well mannered man, well groomed, _handsome_ man."

House snorted.

"That's...good, ma'am."

"Please call me Frannie...or Mom, if you like."

"Uhhhh." He let her hand drop.

"Mom," Myrna called from the doorway. Georgie's shoulders shook from the force of his sniggering.

"Hush, Myrna," Frannie _swatted_ the air; the action could have decimated a passel of horseflies. "Greg."

Wilson lifted a finger. "I'm not-"

"You really shouldn't let your friends come over and put their feet on your furniture." She glowered at House, who responded by wrinkling his nose, like an all pervasive stink had descended from...somewhere.

Wilson emitted a panicked croak, his eyes darting from Frannie to House to the pair standing frozen by the door. "I'll have to-"

"_My_ feet, _my_ table..._my_ place." House announced loudly, wiggling his right foot, causing the beer bottles to shiver and clink against one another. "Mine, mine, MINE."

Frannie's pucker was back, her eyes wide circles of disbelief. "_No." _Her voice was soft, much too soft.

"How're you doin'?" He eased his leg to the floor. Leaning forward, he extended his hand, disregarding the kid guffawing by the door, Myrna's groan, Wilson's choked apology. At this moment, he only had eyes for the horrified Frannie. She reared back, away, _away_ from the offer of House's hand. Her gaze shifted wistfully, hopefully toward Wilson, who could only shrug and jerk his thumb at her future son-in-law.

House drew back his hand and set it on his lap. "Really great to meet you." Tilting his head, he winked and donned a mischievous smirk before laying the truth on thick and strong. "I'm Myrna's fiancé, Greg."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **I feel the need to put a profanity warning on this chapter. Hopefully the use of certain expletives will not offend to any great degree. Thanks to all who've been reading AND reading and commenting. I appreciate it!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-11-**

Georgie didn't know what to make of this guy. He seemed kind of cool, which made no sense. Guys his age were never cool, especially to kids like George. They were usually teachers or cops--or store owners who watched you like you were going to rip off the entire back end of their fuckin' place. Just cart it all away in a U-Haul. How stupid is that shit?

The coolest thing about the guy was how Frannie reacted to him. Yee-ow! Wasn't that the fucking bomb? The other guy, the super straight looking dude with the white shirt and blue tie, was Mom's friggin' ideal. He actually cleaned off the table before he left, threw out the pizza (it was gross shit, anyway), gathered up the beer bottles and put them in a recycle bin under the sink. A total fuckin' dweeb. A-:"Nine-to-Fiver", a 'Honey-I'm-Home-er", a "Fuck-Yer-Wife-Once-A-Week-er". Just Mom's type. Georgie was surprised she hadn't pushed Mr. Straight and Narrow into a corner and ordered him to _do something about the situation. _Mom was good at ordering people around. Most of the time she got what she wanted. Once fools realized it was the only way to fuckin' get rid of her, they caved.

But this guy Greg was real interesting, someone who could give Mom a run for her money. Usually George was good at figuring people out. It didn't take him long to see through a lie or a fake smile or pick up on a weakness. Being a good judge of character allowed him to take advantage of people, make them do what _he_ wanted. Especially girls...and kids with money. But this guy...well, he was going to be a challenge.

After the little meet and greet, Mom dashed off to the hotel with Myrna as her chauffer. And George was not surprised at the speed in which Frannie made her exit. He knew the old bag wanted to get the hell away from Greg as soon as she realized...he was the guy. Myrna's guy. She was at a real loss, totally unprepared. Shit. Myrna's guy was not like anyone she'd ever known. Hell, he wasn't like anyone Georgie'd ever known either.

_Fuck._

Greg was...rumpled, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed after a really raucous night of boozing it up. His hair stuck up in little tufts around the back and sides of his head. He was all bristly and stubbly. Not in the neat, Mr. Macho way, but in the 'hell, I don't give a fuck about shaving' way. Sometimes he wore a shit eating grin, other times, Georgie could swear he was possessed by a demon with insane blue eyes that could dig right into your soul.

_Wow._

It was going to take the rest of the night for Mom to wonder and complain about this guy, this intrusion into her status quo. But once she got it all figured out, the shit was really gonna slap those fan blades. Hard.

Georgie was glad he'd stayed behind. He hadn't felt like dealing with drama or going to the hotel just yet. What was he going to do there? Sit in the fuckin' room and listen to Mom bitch at Myrna? Go to some twenty dollar a plate restaurant with white linen napkins, where the food they gave you couldn't fill up a damn gnat...and listen to Mom bitch at Myrna? Nah, not when Interesting Greg said he could hang out here.

Georgie roamed the living room, pausing to finger the knick-knacks on Greg's shelves. They weren't like the old lady stuff Frannie insisted on displaying back home. No, Interesting Greg had a pair of shiny brass cannons, a long, sharp bronze thing that looked like an oversized scalpel, a pewter gnome, a bag that laughed when you pushed it. Georgie tactfully eyed all the other cool shit lined up nice and neat. What he really wanted was to take those toys off the shelves, lay them out in a big circle and play with them. For hours. Like a friggin' five year old.

He looked over his shoulder at Greg, who was settled on the couch, watching the tube. Georgie could swear he saw a wicked glint in those eyes, a hint of a sneer on that face. Like he knew exactly what George was thinking.

_Yeah, right._

George snorted, turning away from the shelves. For some reason, he didn't want Greg thinking he was just some goofball kid, who happened to be Myrna's brother.

The TV played low; Greg was watching some ancient movie old people liked.

Those movies spooked Georgie. Everyone was in black and white, talking all clipped and fancy, like they were centuries old. They might as well have been ghosts.

He strolled across the room and stopped, noticing how Myrna's books were nestled good and right on the bookshelf. Home was wherever her books were, she'd told him once. Okay, that's fair. He paced, his heavy treads making the floorboards creak. After a while, he gave the place a silent seal of approval, figuring it was as good a place as any for Myrna to live.

Greg's eyes were glued to that TV, but he was watching George...saw everything he did. Somehow, Georgie knew. It was crazy, inexplicable, and it gave George the creeps.

He thought about hiding out in the bathroom. _Yeah. _He could check out the medicine cabinet. You learned a hell of a lot more about people studying their meds than searching their sock drawer.

"What are you writing?"

The question made him flinch, then freeze in his tracks. He turned his head slowly to see Greg staring at him, really friggin' staring. His right leg had returned to its resting place on the table. One hand was twirling the remote. Maybe the dude could read minds; maybe he knew about the planned search of the medicine cabinet.

_Shit._

"I'm not writing anything."

A corner of Greg's mouth hitched up; he continued to turn the remote over and over, flipping it from palm to palm. "Writers carry their notebook with them everywhere. Yours is sticking out of your back pocket. It's pretty easy to see its outline under your jersey."

Georgie squirmed, giving the left half of his butt a subtle pat.

"You figured it's safe next to your ass. "Well hid. Personal. Private. How in-te-rest-ing" Greg enunciated that last word and lifted a brow. "Sooo. What _are_ you writing?"

"None of your fuckin' business," Georgie said with a lot less zeal than usual. He considered returning Greg's stare but fear kept his gaze glued to the slats of the hardwood floor. "You wouldn't understand, anyway," he mumbled.

"Wow. You're right. You're way too deep for me. You must be the poet laureate of your generation."

Georgie lifted his eyes, clenched his fists and swallowed hard, his gaze finally meeting Greg's. Those eyes were laughing, oh, yeah the doctor was so damn amused. _Am I that pathetic? _George mused, sensing his edge slipping away.

"You write rhymes in that notebook, like all good rappers do."

"I'm not like all rappers."

"No, of course you're not. You're the great white hope." Greg eased his leg off the table and grabbed his cane, which was waiting patiently by the arm of the sofa. "What, no grills? No ho's? What kind of emcee are you, boyeeee?" He leaned hard against the cane and pushed himself up.

"I can rhyme."

"Moon, June, spoon?" Greg asked with a lilt in his voice.

"You're mocking me."

"Read me a rhyme. I enjoy being in the presence of genius." He drew closer, lips tightening, eyes narrowing. "Go on, big man."

George's first inclination was to beg off, to tell Greg he was too tired after the long day to do his best rhyming. But that was a cop out, a, fuckin' girly way of revealing intimidation. Begging off? Yeah, then Greg would know for sure MC "G" was nothing but a first class wimp.

_Did it matter?_

Yeah, for some reason it did.

"I don't have to _read_ a rhyme."

"No? Ah, I know." Greg gave him a measured look, his tone snide and cutting. "They're all in your head, they're a part of _who_ _you are. _Such a sensitive, artistic lad._"_

"Fuck you." The expletive slipped off his tongue like he was saying good morning. But Greg didn't flinch or fix him with a glare. He just scrutinized George like he was studying a fascinating new symptom for an as yet unnamed diseased.

"Rhyme for me, Georgie," he said, finally. "Spit some fire."

Spit fire? Nobody over forty said _spit fire. _If they did, they sounded like total assholes. But this guy could talk the talk and sound fresh doing it. The words flowed right and natural from his lips.

"I'll pop you one on the spot," George said, already sinking into rhyming mode. "Show you the skills MC "G"'s got."

"Fantastic," Greg replied, putting on a tone that was all upper class and white bread. "Wait'll I tell the fellows at the club."

Georgie took the "stance", legs splayed, fingers outstretched, prepared to punctuate, punch and jab as the rhyme took shape. Words clustered in his head, then rolled off his tongue with practiced ease...

_There be the man with the flames on his cane,_

_Hallowed be thy name,_

_Say thy name in vain,_

_Needle in the vain drain,_

_Doctor put the needle in and drain the pain,_

_Drain the pain, the pain drain,_

_Say my name, sing the refrain,_

_Here to ease my pain,_

_Say it, say it again,_

_Play that bastard's game,_

_Goin' fuckin' nowhere, now I'm doin' the same,_

_Rat's in the drain,_

_He's comin' to getcha, _

_Riding that slow train,_

_Easing my pain._

_Again and again and again._

The rhyme was a machine gun quick, rat-a-tat-tat paced improvisation-the kind that put Georgie's boys in a trance, so good it made the girls cream. Damn he was fresh. Georgie bowed his head, then raised it slowly, mentally puffing out his chest, ready for the accolades.

"That's it?" Greg's face was an expressionless mask. The guy was probably too overwhelmed to let his amazement show.

"Pretty frickin' fine, huh?" Georgie swayed. He wanted to remain stoic and cool but that damn smile was fighting for placement on his lips. Finally he gave in and beamed.

"Pretty damn corny."

Slowly he deflated, drifting back to earth, like helium balloon with a pinhole in its side. "What the hell would you know about it?"

Greg shrugged and held out his hand. "Give me your iPod?"

"How do you fuckin' know I have an iPod?"

"No emcee who thinks he's worth his own self congratulatory crapola would ever leave home without it." He made a 'gimme' motion with his hand. "Give."

Sneering, Georgie shoved his hand into the deep front pocket of his shorts and brought out the iPod and earbuds. "Here." He thrust them into Greg's waiting hand. "Don't mess with it."

"Keep the earbuds," he said, tossing them back at Georgie. "I don't need to hear this shit."

"What do you know, old man?"

Snorting, Greg turned the wheel, checking out the contents of the little box. "So, your picks to click are wonders like Chingy, Canibus, Kanye West and The Game?"

"They got mad skills."

"They suck."

"Come off it." Georgie scowled, trembling, doing his best to hold back his rage. "You don't listen to rap."

"I've heard the good, the classic and the horrible." He tossed the iPod back to George, who snagged it from the air one handed. "Your collection rates a minus two."

He pushed past George and entered his bedroom, leaving the door ajar. George peered through the opening, watching Greg set his cane against the nightstand. He pulled down his sweat pants, then leaned against the wall and steadied himself by resting one hand on the dresser. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of his pants, then lurched over to reach for his jeans that had been tossed over a chair in the corner. The glimpse of Greg's thigh was enough to make Georgie rear back and gasp. It was like someone had taken a knife and gouged out the skin, digging away, leaving a long, angry looking indentation. Questions, distasteful comments, and a few inane jokes crowded inside his head. But he discarded most of them, saving a few for another day.

It took some time for Greg to get those jeans on. He sat on the end of the bed, using his left hand to guide his right leg into the pants. It looked like a ritual, something he'd practiced long and hard to perfect.

Georgie decided he never wanted to be a friggin' cripple; he'd be better off dead.

Greg stood, zipped his fly and buttoned the button. "Might as well come in, George," he called without turning toward the door. "You can gawk in here as easy as you can out there. Plus there's popcorn."

A terrible heat rose from Georgie's neck to his cheeks. He lifted his head and swaggered into the room, feigning a self assuredness he sure as hell didn't feel.

Greg didn't look at him. Instead he moved to the dresser, gathering his wallet, keys, spare change and a wad of bills and stuffing them into his pockets. Myrna's perfume and a collection of her brushes and powders took up a small area next to a man's hairbrush and a couple of vials of pills. Georgie's blood roared in his ears. His gut clenched as his palms went cold. There was something intimate here, something dark, private and secret: a well guarded world of rumpled bed sheets, musk and sex. His brow furrowed as his tongue made a slow trek across his upper lip.

"Hey."

"What?" Greg frowned into the mirror, giving his hair a perfunctory brushing.

"This where you do my sister?"

Their eyes met for a moment. Then...nothing. Greg's gaze flicked back to his reflection as he finished his grooming.

Spinning on his heel, George let out a long breath. He smirked and smoothed his jersey with two hands. Yeah, there would be no doubt now that Georgie was the man. He shut the doctor dooooowwwn. Now who's corny, who's the fool, who's the-?

His legs were suddenly two traitorous sticks of skin, muscle and bone. They wound around each other and the obstructive force that had magically appeared to thwart him. As he cried out, he realized his control over the limbs had somehow been wrenched away. He wobbled, then toppled over like some sick old fool. Now he was looking up not down. His hat had been thrown clear, lost for the moment. Greg loomed over him, twirling his cane, one foot pressing against MC "G's" heaving stomach.

"You tripped me, asshole," George spat.

"Your mouth can be your best friend or your worst enemy." Greg chucked the tip of the cane under George's chin, exerting just enough pressure against his throat to make it go dry.

"You're an old cripple," George rasped, sounding like a weakling. He was shaking. At this moment he despised himself. "You can't do nothing."

"You forget, Georgie. I know the human body like you know your rhymes." His smile was gentle but that look in his eyes could have scared off a pack of wolves. "And armed with that knowledge, there's no telling what I can do."

"Uhhhhh."

Greg was like one of those guys in the old black and white films: sinister and terrifying.

"You get my drift, George?"

"Yeah." _Shit!_

The pressure of the cane eased only slightly as Greg's eyes did that soul drilling thing again. "Now that you're my captive audience, let me tell you what is and what will never be."

"Uh..."

"It was ve-ry bad to disrespect your sister like you just did. Wasn't it?"

"Unh."

The cane tip trembled against Georgie's windpipe.

"Wasn't it?"

"Unh...yeah."

"Sooo, you will never, ever speak about her that way again." Greg paused. "Let me hear you say, 'Sorry, Greg.'"

"So-rry, Gre-eg."

The cane twisted, pressing harder and deeper than before, causing Georgie to croak.

"Say it like you mean it."

"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry," he squeaked.

"Now, over by the dresser there is an envelope containing ten ten dollar bills." Those blue eyes widened, drawing him in. "It can all be yours."

"Unh?"

"Unh." A hint of a smile played on Greg's lips, then vanished. "The catch is...that cursing is out. O-U-T. While you're here your mouth will be as clean as the inside of your wallet.

Georgie's mouth fell open.

"Every time you mess up, and I know you will, you lose one of those precious ten spots. Hell, you'll probably be in the negative numbers by the time you head for home. You'll owe _me_ money." His chuckle was nasty and all-knowing. Georgie wanted to lay the guy out, deck him good. If his boys were here, this whole scenario would be playing out in a much different way...

"You got it?"

"I guess." Georgie's gaze traveled to the dresser before meeting Greg's eyes again.

"Don't even think about lifting what doesn't yet belong to you. Understand?"

"Yeah."

"Good, " Greg removed the cane from George's throat as he offered his hand. "Get up."

Like a restless sparrow, George's eyes flitted from the outstretched hand to the cane to Greg's legs.

How easy it would be.

The image of himself wrenching the guy's hand, pulling that lanky body down so it hit the floor like a lead weight, intrigued and delighted him. He sneered, imagining he could hear Greg's moans, his pleas for help--

"Georgie," Greg said softly.

"Huh?"

"Don't even think about that either."

George blinked. His smile withered and died.

Glowering, Greg drew back his hand. "I'm leaving in three minutes, with or without you." He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Pushing himself off the floor, George grimaced, brushed off his jersey and found his hat. He could still feel the pressure of Greg's sneaker against his stomach, the twist of the cane's rubber tip against his throat. He glanced down, mouth twisting in anger as he noticed the black sneaker tread marking the lower half of the Lakers shirt.

"Shit!" he groaned to himself.

"Ninety," Greg called.

George threw a caustic look at the door, then quickly adjusted his expression to one of calm compliance.

Hell, he really had to watch his back. The guy could probably see through walls...


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **This chapter is kind of long and I apologize for that. I try to keep these updates as compact as possible, but the muse sometimes has bigger plans. Anyway, thanks for reading and reviewing or just reading and enjoying. That's fine too.

**-12-**

Myrna told herself she had a lot to be thankful for. She was getting married in a couple of days, which was good. She continued to take pride in her work. That was also good. She was still her own person, and that was definitely good.

She tried to keep these things in mind as her mother dragged her into every women's apparel store in the Palmer Square mall. Unfortunately, the mall was open until 10 PM, which meant two more hours of Frannie pressing on to find Myrna that perfect dress for Saturday.

"I _have_ a dress, Mom," Myrna informed her twice at dinner. They had eaten in the hotel restaurant before getting Frannie checked in (which had been surprisingly smooth going). Her stomach stuffed with filet of sole, hotel key card in hand, Frannie trudged alongside Myrna to the elevators...which is when the bitch fest began. First up--Mom did not like how the woman behind the desk smiled. Her teeth were crooked and yellowish. She was creepy looking...too old. A hotel should only have young, pretty people helping customers.

But Frannie hadn't even hit her stride. As the evening wore on, The Bromfeld Bitch Fest hitched into high gear. The more Mom yammered, the more intensely Myrna suffered, feeling her old pal anxiety writhing and twisting in her gut. Such was the powerful wizardry of Frannie's complaints.

Pretty soon the Bitch Fest would be nearing its peak.

She and Greg should have eloped; the thought popped into Myrna's head unbidden (although she did call it up a few subsequent times over the course of the evening). He _had_ suggested it: Vegas, Mexico, anywhere, which was a shocker. Greg did not possess the faintest bit of wanderlust. At first, even the idea of the Canadian honeymoon was met with resistance. So his suggestion to elope both surprised and pleased her. Of course, Myrna couldn't find it in herself to abandon tradition and just...leave. The thought of how hurt Frannie would have been was what made her say no.

Yeah, hindsight was a bitch. Myrna couldn't help regretting her decision. How good and free and fun it would have been: just her and Greg, taking off, getting married in a strange town, surrounded by anonymous well-wishers they would never see again. There was something provocative about that. Something extremely sexy.

But she had made her choice and now she had to live with it.

Once they left the registration desk, Frannie complaints intensified, like a light drizzle changing to sheets of hard, driving rain. The elevator was too slow in coming, the room was too far from the elevator banks. The place was too hot, one bed was too hard, the other too soft. Which should she take? She tested each mattress three or four times before deciding on which was to be 'hers'. Georgie wouldn't care. He was one of those kids who could pass out on a rock.

Myrna heaved a sigh, shook her head, attempting to fight off the descending haze. Like a mirror in a mirror image, the dress racks seemed to go on an on...and on...and on.

She recalled the clench in her gut the moment Mom mistook James for Greg. It was an understandable mistake, especially since Greg looked like he'd just rolled out of bed after a three day drunk. The whole thing _was_ wickedly funny. Years from now they would laugh about it. But not now. Now it was trouble, like a sore tooth in a lion's jaw.

Frannie was mortified.. Her embarrassment sent her rocketing from the room, hauling Myrna along with her. They ended up in the bedroom, where Frannie caught her breath and demanded to see the wedding dress. There had been no mention of Greg. Not one word. She wanted the dress. The dress, the dress, the dress. And when Myrna brought it out of the closet and zipped open the storage bag, Frannie wrinkled her nose in triumphant distaste. Of course the dress was unacceptable.

Of course.

Frannie ignored Greg on the way out of the apartment. She hadn't mentioned him in the car. She spoke only of wedding dresses, hotel rooms and the rising price of gasoline.

They spent forty five minutes in Ann Taylor's, where Frannie corralled the saleswoman into locating every white or off white dress in Myrna's size.

"I _have_ a dress, Mom," Myrna sighed after trying on...and detesting the fourth one. She met Clarissa's (their perky personal sales assistant) sympathetic gaze, and waved a dismissive hand at the fifth contestant. "I like the dress I have at home." Myrna threw her mother a decisive nod. "I'm going to wear it."

"Can I see you outside?"

Myrna apologized to Clarissa, who remained rooted to the spot, continuing to hold up the fifth dress. _Well, _Myrna thought as she sullenly followed her mother out of the store, _if she stands there long enough with it hanging from her arm, there's bound to be a buyer._

A confrontation was on its way. A real lollapalooza. Her mother was pursing her lips and pulling at the skin beneath her chin: telltale signs her anger was rising. Storm clouds were threatening. The big question would be broached any minute.

"Georgie should be here, with us, Myrna." Frannie frowned, her gaze far away. "He needs a haircut."

"I'm sure he's having a better time with Greg."

Frannie turned her head slowly, fixing Myrna with an accusatory glare. The time had come. This was _it! _Way over by Sephora, at the other end of the mall's second floor, Myrna could swear she heard thunder roll.

"Why would you say such a thing?" Frannie's voice was low and gruff, nearly obscured by the Muzak version of "Feelings" descending from the rafters.

Myrna had a very bad feeling. "Why don't we go to the car and talk?"

"We'll talk right here!"

The 'Mom' voice caught the attention of three bosomy teenage girls. They snapped their gum and slowed their steps, as their smiles grew wide and knowing. Yes, they had definitely had been there, done that with their own mothers, sisters, aunts, whomever. But they were anything but sympathetic. They waved their fingers at Frannie, whispering and snickering and, at one point, dissolving into a chorus of derisive cackles.

_Shut up, _Myrna wanted to shout...just scream it out and shake those girls until each one collapsed lat her feet like a sack of meal. She narrowed her eyes as they passed, let out a short breath, and slowly changed her mind. It wasn't their fault. Someone close to them, someone loving and caring had done them a true favor and damaged them. For life.

A burly man wearing a wife beater and shorts approached, pushing a stroller along at a good clip. He wanted to pass, maybe head for the parking lot, get in his car and drive his kid home. But Frannie was standing smack dab between Cinnabon and Orange Julius, blocking his way. Myrna felt for the guy. He looked haggard, exhausted, muttering under his breath as he attempted to steer around Frannie. Unfortunately, her itinerary for the evening seemed not to include clearing a path for her fellow shoppers. With arms folded across her chest, she stood silent and gloriously indignant in the center of the aisle.

Burly man was getting somewhat loud now, his grumbling taking on a sharper edge. But his vitriol was not aimed at Frannie, who probably didn't care, but at Myrna (who did). _She_ would bear the brunt of this; _she _would be left defusing whatever situations Frannie might instigate this evening.

"Move out of the way, Mom." Myrna grabbed Frannie's arm and pulled her none too gently over to the glass and steel barrier overlooking the first floor.

"You hurt me."

"I didn't hurt you," Myrna hissed. "You're as sturdy as an ox."

"You're on a mission to make this whole visit difficult, aren't you?"

_Just another damn day in paradise..._

"Yes, Mom. I'm on a mission." Myrna leaned over the railing and nodded her head decisively. "And, yes, I am certain Georgie is having a better time with Greg."

"Are you trying to get me upset, Myrna? Because if you are-"

"_I_ should be the one who's upset," Myrna said softly to the shoppers below. "You didn't say one word to Greg. Not even a simple 'hello'. "

Frannie sniffed. "Why should I say hello to a man who doesn't shave, puts his feet all over the furniture, and looks like a decrepit bum. In fact, I've seen bums in better shape than your...whatever you want to call him." She paused to inhale, then continued. "Did he sleep in those clothes?"

"I have a nifty idea. You can be civil to him because I'm marrying him." She arched a brow. "Simple."

They were side by side now, elbows and upper arms touching. They probably looked like kindred spirits, like old pals enjoying each others company.

_Not_.

"Desperation can make a person do funny things, Myrna."

"I've never been desperate."

"You were desperate when you were home and dating that Thomas fellow. He was _also_ twice your age." Frannie tapped a forefinger to her chin. "Hmmm, wonder what a shrink would make of that."

"How was I desperate? I was having fun."

"You were having sex."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Myrna threw her hands up, well aware her voice was too loud. It grated on her but she couldn't seem to stop it from rising higher and higher... "It was none of your business!" Her heart drummed along with the hot beat of her consternation. She was livid. In a moment, if she didn't take a few deep breaths, she would be out of control.

"Aw. But that's just you, Myrna." Frannie kept plugging away. "You do what you want, not giving a single thought as to how if affects others."

"What?" Incredulousness shook hands with livid to form...justifiable fury. "_What?"_

"You heard me. You just don't care. You leave your mother and brother, the only family you have, to get as far away as possible. Now, _now_ you are marrying a man just because he asked-"

"Stop it."

"He's a cripple-"

Myrna's breaths quickened. She held tight to the railing. Below, the rolling sea of shoppers seemed to waver and pitch.

"-a slovenly loser from the looks of him. Of course he'd want to marry a pretty nurse. You can give him your personal attention, catering to him in every-"

"STOP IT!" Myrna sobbed, pressing her hands to her ears. "You don't even know him. You don't even want to get to know him."

"Oh, I know the type."

"Yeah." Myrna unzipped her purse and rifled through it for a few seconds before finding a tissue. It was stained with lipstick traces: the wine colored kind trollops wore. "You think you know everything. When daddy died you thought you'd been suddenly blessed with the wisdom of the ages, acting like a damn sage." She dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose and emitted another small sob. "Something happened to you, Mom. I remember. Three weeks after the funeral, your hands started to ache. You decided you needed to go to that quack chiropractor after Dr. Janesbury found nothing wrong with you."

"Dr. Janesbury was the quack."

"He'd been our family doctor for ten years." Myrna pounded the railing with her fist, noticing the curious eyes of the passersby. Let them look, let them ogle and stare. Maybe if they listened hard enough they would learn something about themselves.

"Something was wrong with me. But Dr. Minchin couldn't fix it." The sound of Frannie's sigh seemed to fill the entire mall. "I guess I was already too far gone."

"Nothing was ever wrong with your hands," Myrna spat. "It...was all up here." She whipped her head toward her mother and tapped a forefinger against Frannie's temple before the old lady could back away. "I put up with you. I took care of you and Georgie and I never, _never_ complained."

Frannie's gaze turned a steely gray-green. "_Fffft_. You did what any daughter who cared about her family would do."

"You took advantage of me. You were selfish then and you're being selfish now."

"What a terrible thing to say to your mother."

Myrna's hands were trembling. Behind her eyes hot tears were queuing up, preparing to make their appearance. Pink neon lettering above the storefronts melted into a candy floss blur. Shoppers were featureless, colorful apparitions going about their business.

She had to get out of here before she either passed out or throttled her mother to within an inch of her life.

"I'm leaving." Myrna's lips pressed together as she hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. "Now. With or without you."

Frannie's mouth fell open as Myrna brushed past her. Heels scritching against the waxed smoothness of the tiles, Myrna made her way toward the exit without looking back. But her mother was there, following along. She heard her. The _tick clack _of those heels swallowed up every other sound for miles...

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The Honda cycle rumbled and roared beneath him. Its vibrations traveled up his legs and thighs to pleasure him, giving him that familiar, rousing warmth in his groin. Moving onwards and upwards, that shivery, shuddery shake trembled through his spine, then moved on to buzz the nape of his neck. Chills rode down his back; he was feeling good.

_Woah..._

The ride was unexpectedly invigorating tonight. He'd been expecting a mediocre meal but this wondrous gourmet dinner of motion had been served up instead. It surprised the hell out of him.

And the fact that it was a night ride enhanced his enjoyment. He savored it all: the creak of his leather jacket as he turned the corner, the smell of the asphalt, the bus fumes, the grime, the headlights approaching, wicked close, then zipping by, the kid's arms around his waist, tightening with fear and excitement as the Honda kicked forward, hovering just over the speed limit.

His chuckle was deep and low as he roared down the roads of Princeton. That laughter intensified as he thought about the kid he'd so easily knocked down a few notches moments before. House prided himself on keeping his edge, through illness, through heartbreak, through job loss, through chronic pain. He was still that cocky military brat who discovered words could be just as debilitating as a punch in the solar plexus. He'd gotten out of a lot of scrapes using his wiles. Gotten into a bunch of them too.

It was true. Words could be your best friend or your worst enemy.

Georgie's mouth was going to get him in a truckload of trouble someday. He needed to fear...someone...something. House figured it might as well be him, at least for the next few days. At home, George had no male figure to dominate him or answer to, just his boys. And no way were they positive forces in the universe. Guaranteed, one of these days those boys were going to get Georgie knifed in the back, shot in the gut or twenty five to life.

George needed to fear. He needed humility. He needed to know when to shut his mouth.

"Where are we going?" George yelled as they slowed and stopped for the light.

"Shut up."

They roared off again, took some twisty turns at a stomach dropping clip, ending up in the parking lot of _Elmer's, _House's favorite greasy spoon. Myrna had tolerated a couple of visits, but she wasn't one of the faithful, Wilson wasn't its biggest advocate either. So House didn't get here much. But now that he had a captive audience...

"This place is ghetto," Georgie whipped off the helmet he hadn't wanted to wear in the first place. He'd groused that it just wasn't cool. Having your head bashed in, House explained, wasn't cool either.

"Awww, Don't like _Elmer's_?" House threw him a mock pout.

"No," George grumbled.

"Then stay out here," House eased off his seat, then hobbled past George to retrieved his cane from its sheath attached to the side of the bike. "Don't eat," he cooed, tossing George a syrupy grin.

Shaking his head, George tucked his helmet under his arm and followed House across the parking lot. "Shee-it," he hissed

"Eighty." House shook a triumphant finger in the air.

"No _way_ you heard that," George moaned.

The glass door squealed on its hinges as House pulled it open.

_Elmer's_ had originally been an old railroad car left in the rain to rust, corrode and eventually be hauled away for scrap. But someone had a better idea and carted it to the outskirts of town. They spruced it up, added a kitchen and _voila_! Instant diner. But that was forty years ago, when the whole idea of railroad car diner might have been considered innovative and neat-o. With its scarlet walls, matching leatherette booths and counter stools, it had probably been a hit, a great place to bring a date before banging her in the back of the old Chevy.

Now it was just...ghetto.

"Sit." House waved his cane at the nearest empty booth. The place smelled of old grease and fried onions. It was nowhere near jumpin'; only two out of the ten booths were occupied. Over there, an elderly man nodded over his soup bowl, and three booths back sat two heavily rouged, mascara caked young women. They perused the parking lot as they picked at a plate of fries.

Georgie perused them.

"Sit!" House thrust the cane into the small of George's back, sending the kid stumbling into the booth across the aisle. George nearly fell flat across the seat, before righting himself and sliding toward the window.

The girls giggled.

Georgie grumbled and threw them a scowl. House was certain the kid would have tossed them the bird if another ten dollars hadn't been on the line.

"Have the fish taco."

Georgie's scowl morphed into a cringe. "You gotta be kidding."

"Trust me. It's good."

"Eww, gross."

The girls giggled again.

"Hey, shut up," Georgie shouted. "Whores..."

"Seventy." House crooned, leaning his chin on his hand as he drummed his fingers against the table.

"Wha-? That wasn't a curse."

House leaned forward, his mouth lifting into a half grin. "According to Greg's _Primer Of Profanity,_ it is."

"Geez." Georgie shook his head and glared out the window.

Selma, the matronly waitress who seemed to always be on the job (at least when House came a-callin') took House's order. Fish tacos all around and two Cokes.

Georgie was too quiet, dividing his time between staring out that window and staring down those girls.

"You can talk if you want," House told him. "I only bite on days with an 'M' in them."

"Monday...?" Georgie clicked his tongue.

"Right," House said. "I don't like Mondays."

"Why not?"

"It's a song. _I Don't Like Mondays_."

Georgie flapped his lips. "Never heard of it."

Using his fork and spoon, House played a paradiddle against the edge of the table. "You really don't know anything about music, do you?"

"I know my rhymes. I know the music that matters."

"You don't know shit."

"Oh, so you can curse and I can't?"

"Lower your voice and yes, that's the deal."

"Why?"

"Because you're in Gregland and in Gregland I make the damn rules." He locked eyes with George and jabbed the air with the fork. "That's why."

George licked his lips and fell silent again, returning his gaze to the parking lot. The girls threw a few unladylike catcalls his way. But one dose of House's major league sneer, cut their vocalizing short.

"Hey," George said after letting another moment pass.

"What?"

"You let Myrna ride your bike?" Georgie asked.

_Strange question..._

"She rides on back. Wears a helmet and doesn't complain about it."

"No." George met his eyes. "I mean do you let _her_ drive your cycle."

House shrugged and studied his placemat. It was an activity sheet for kids, smiling fish and mermaids danced together in a sea crying out for the magical hues of Crayola. "She doesn't know how."

Folding his arms, Georgie leaned back, his eyes narrowing, lips widening in something akin to a victory grin.

"What's with the stupid look?"

"Back home, my sister had her own bike, something like yours. I don't know what the f-" He ducked his head, scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't know what kind. She used to ride to school on it. Loved it. Used to take me out on it sometimes behind my mother's back. If Frannie knew, she would have had a fit."

Headlights flared and died in the parking lot. A horn beeped, causing the two girls to squeal, grab their purses and clatter down the aisle toward the door. "Byeee, loser boy," the shrieked as they passed.

Georgie twisted his lips. "Idiots," he hissed, then threw House a hesitant, questioning look.

House frowned, tapping his fork against the outline of the cheery fish. "Why didn't she tell me?"

"How should I know? Thomas taught her to ride. I don't know..."

The fish tacos arrived. Boy and man lifted the delicacies to their lips and ate in silence. Greg chewed pensively. Georgie downed his taco without complaint. When he came up for air, he looked like he could have used another. But House didn't offer. He was disappointed with the food, tossing the last remnant onto his paper plate.

"That was good." George belched and pressed a hand to his stomach.

"It sucked." House crumpled his napkin and tossed it onto the plate to join the last bit of taco.

"You _said_ it was good."

"It usually is."

Selma brought the check. She looked tired, like she could have used a month off to idle in the Caribbean.

House set his money down and clicked his tongue. "Tacos tasted like paper mache tonight, Selma."

She shrugged, offering him a sad smile. "Frankie's off. Jared don't know what he's doin' back there.

"Wish you would have told me."

Selma swept up the money with a practiced flourish, then sauntered back to her post.

Wipe your face." House threw a paper napkin at Georgie. Obediently, George grabbed the napkin and scrubbed at the corners of his mouth.

"Let's go." House slid out of the booth, pleased at how quickly Georgie followed suit.

The kid hadn't even attempted to dawdle.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"This is Georgie or, MC "G" as all de cool cats say,"

They stood in the presence of His Eminence Kyle, the proprietor of _Zog's _(named after Werner Herzog, the man's favorite film director),one of the last surviving independent record stores in the state. House visited once or twice a week, each time invariably finding another great piece of blues vinyl to add to his collection. The shop smelled of ancient record sleeves and dust. The floor was a faded, cracked checkerboard. A Coltrane riff poured from the speakers like liquid gold--all proof that magic had taken up residence here. If this combination of elements could somehow be bottled, House figured it could cure...anything.

_Wouldn't need you anymore, eh, old son?_

"The emcee here is my future brother-in-law."

"Hey." Kyle extended a meaty hand from behind his counter. He was a big guy with a big gut, graying blond hair and a scruffy beard. 'Roly poly' was how a kid might have described him. House thought he looked like a beatnik version of Burl Ives. But there was strength in that body, power in those hands, a wealth of knowledge behind those eyes. His appearance belied his smarts. He looked like he should be bouncing drunks out of a club, not talking about music, films and life in a retail shop. But it was _his _shop. He was proud of it. House figured if the guy had a choice (when the time came) he would prefer to die right here in the presence of the thousands of records and CDs lining the walls, than anywhere else.

George shook Kyle's hand.

"Georgie here thinks he knows everything there is to know about hip-hop."

"Wow." Kyle hitched a shaggy brow. "That is _fuckin'_ impressive." His grin was wide but his tone was sardonic and cutting.

Slack jawed George was in for a treat.

"Where's your iPod?" Kyle made a 'gimme' motion with his hand.

Reluctantly, Georgie fished it from his pocket and set it in the big guy's hand. "You learn that 'gimme' thing from him?" George quirked his chin at House.

"Nah." Kyle studied the screen as he scrolled through the contents. "He learned from me." Right, Greg?"

"Oh, yeah." House laughed. "You da man."

Kyle scrutinized the iPod screen like it held the key to the meaning of life. He ran one hand down his scruffy beard, his sharp blue eyes taking it all in. Finally, he raised his head.

"You know what I got here, MC "G"?"

"Uh."

"Answer the man." House nudged George with his elbow.

"Uh...what?" said George.

"What I got here is a handful of whack."

"Ain't no whack, bro." Spittle flew from George's lips. "Those guys are masters."

"Chingy? T.I.? Young Jeezy? Greg, you get a load of this crap?"

"It's why young George was brought to kneel at your alter, Master. "

"There's no _Criminal Minded_ here,no Dre. Where's Public Enemy's _It'll Take A Million, _NWA's _Straight Outta Compton?"_

"I-"

"'scuse me." Kyle paused to greet a customer and ring a sale. Turning back to George, he said, "You need...this." Kyle reached under the counter, brought out a CD and shoved it in Georgie's face. The kid took it and checked out the cover.

"The Mona Lisa of the genre," Kyle crowed.

House smirked, knowing what disc it was before even glancing at it over Georgie's shoulder.

"Nas. _Illmatic." _George made a face.

"Don't you be dissing that shit, Georgie." Kyle's eyes burned with conviction. "This is prime. This is _serious._ You play this for your boys, they're gonna weep. They're gonna worship you."

Georgie muttered something to himself and returned the disc to Kyle. "Thanks, man. I'll keep that in mind."

Kyle pushed his hand away. "Keep it. That's my copy. You remember where it came from when your boys are bowing and scraping to you."

"I can have it?" Georgie breathed.

Kyle nodded without a trace of a smile.

"No shit! he shouted.

"Sixty," Greg said.

"Awww!" George stomped his foot in frustration and threw House a silent plea.

"We now have sixty bucks on the line. It used to be a hundred," House explained to Kyle. "He loses ten bucks every time he swears."

"Ah." Kyle busied himself with some paperwork, succeeding only slightly in keeping his smile at bay. "Maybe...you could...give the kid a break. This time."

"This time?" Georgie piped up, meek yet hopeful.

"We-ell, that _was_ heavy stuff." House rubbed his chin, making a big show of drawing out the moment. "I'll give you one."

"Yeah?"

House turned and headed toward the Blues section. "Kyle, pick out three more essential additions to the kid's treasure trove."

"Woah," Georgie shouted and clapped his hands.

"And George..."

"Yeah?"

"If I hear a swear, the deal's nowhere." House looked over his shoulder and tossed them both a wicked grin. "_That_ is the 'H' man's law, boyeeez."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Thanks to all who have been reading and reviewing and/or reading and just enjoying. Your continued interest is much appreciated.

**Disclaimer:** House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Beta: **Hey la, hey la, my beta's back. After taking a short break, my brilliant beta **NaiveEve **has returned. Thank you, E.

**-13-**

A stumble, a few backward stutter steps sent him colliding with the bricks and...he...was...

_...up against the wall, motherfucker! _

Oh, very good. Very funny. That damn well hurt.

His breathing was ragged. A thin sheen of sweat coated his brow and the back of his neck. But the evening was cool; the night breeze riffled his hair. He shouldn't be mopping perspiration from his forehead on his jacket sleeve.

_Hurt._

He moaned, favoring his left side, then his right, which did nothing to alleviate his discomfort; his shoulders continued to ache from the force of his collision with the brick wall. But the ache in his shoulders was nothing compared to the agony that was his right leg. It screamed, cried, pleaded to him in its own inimitable fashion. The shoulder-leg pain combo made him want to jump back on his Honda and slam himself into the side of a building. At least then sweet oblivion would take hold. He wouldn't have to _feel._

_But Myrna...she'd be kind of upset, don't you think?_

Yeah, well...

His leg. _Damn,_ it hurt.

_Move, idiot, move!_

Trembling fingers rooted through his jacket pocket, forefinger and middle finger working in tandem to clasp his keys. In a perfect world his Vicodin would have been in that pocket too..

_In a perfect world you wouldn't need that Vicodin. Moron._

He should have been dry swallowing three of those suckers right now. At this moment he would have traded his keys for them, his Honda, the Petie Wheatstraw LP he had unearthed at _Zog's _(a treasure he discovered lying forgotten and alone beneath an empty cardboard box and three dust caked _Saturday Night Fever_ cassettes). But his precious cargo had been lost. It must have fallen out of his pocket somewhere on the dark roads of Princeton.

His right leg was _burning_ like a chunk of meat on a spit. He'd been too long on the bike, too long without his pills. _Goddamn_, he couldn't remember the last time he had been in this much pain.

_Serves you right, you stubborn ass. Always waiting until the last minute to pop a few. Now look at you: a hurting heap of dung. If you took those pills when you were supposed to, before you even picked up the kid, you wouldn't be in such agony._

_Wilson's always on you about this. Yeah, he's good at tossing out that annoying doctorspeak: 'prevention is the key', and 'stick with a routine, take your meds at regular intervals.' Blah, blah, blah. You'll never tell him he's right, never give him the satisfaction..._

Lucky he'd been able to hold on long enough to drop Georgie at the hotel. The kid gave him an odd look before booking through the swank revolving door of the place, leaving House to deal with the irrepressible Messrs. Honda and Hurt.

House groaned, lumbering into his building and ramming the key into the lock of his apartment door. He could have knocked. Myrna was home. Her SUV was out front. But it was late. She was probably asleep. Didn't want to alarm her. In the shape he was in, he would have started out knocking and ended up practically banging down the door.

His groans changed into a series of labored grunts, his cane steadying him as he lurched into the living room. Myrna, ever loving, ever considerate, had left the lamp on by the sofa. The soft light did an admirable job of illuminating the room.

The hidey holes he'd devised flashed through his head like vacation slides. His pills were everywhere: in drawers, light fixtures, rolled up in winter socks, on the top rear shelf of the bedroom closet-inside a shoe box (lots of vials in there). Even the old standby, the medicine cabinet, boasted a few vials. But the easiest place to grab a fix was the bedroom. Managing a tip-toe sort of hobble, he made his tremulous way there. Only peripherally did he notice Myrna's sleeping form huddled beneath the comforter. Right now he only had eyes for his meds. Through the shadows he saw them, on top of the dresser, nestled next to Myrna's perfumes. Waiting for him.

"Greg?"

"Unh?"

He heard the rustle of bed sheets behind him as he lurched closer to what he _needed_.

"You okay?"

"Need...my pills." He dropped his cane and half fell, half leaned against the sturdy oak dresser. The little bottles of perfumes and colognes tinkled a merry welcome. How many times had he drunkenly stumbled into this damned dresser? It had been his since Methuselah's age. Stacy threatened to burn it for firewood one time but he'd managed to talk her out of it...

A gentle light filled the room. Long grey shadows stretched along the carpet and the walls, like a group of spectral eavesdroppers. Myrna had turned on the nightstand lamp and now rested on her knees, watching him. She wore a see-through pink t-shirt and bikini panties. The comforter was bunched beneath her legs. Her hair was tousled, her lips a concerned 'o'. House's eyes grazed on her for one long moment before he bowed to his pain again.

"Didn't you bring them with you?"

He grabbed an amber vial, and winced as he popped the cap with his thumb. In a second three pills were in his shaky hand. One second more and they were down his gullet, on their way to joining forces with nervous system and bloodstream to make things all better.

_Easy now. Eaaa-sy._

"Lost them. They must have fallen out of my pocket. Somewhere."

"Mmm. Let's get you comfortable."

_Always ready and waiting_.

He managed a weak grin and sat on the edge of the mattress, then winced slightly as Myrna helped him out of out of his jeans.

Bowing his head, he savored the warmth that flowed lazily along, like thick sweet syrup through his veins. He let out a long breath. Pain was packing its duffel, leaving town. He pictured it cold, alone and abandoned, way, way out in the boondocks.

Myrna propped up his pillows, motioning him to shift his body around and ease one leg at a time up onto the bed.

"Lie down," she said.

His eyes conducted a brief tour of her. "Join me." He leered.

Placing her hands gently on his chest, she pushed him back against the headboard. "There." Grinning, she clambered over him to get to her side of the bed.

He greeted her with his hands, caressing the tops of her thighs, the sides of her breasts. "Sooo," he crooned, his body feeling safe, secure and warm in all the right places, "I'm game if you are."

She grasped his hands and placed them on his chest, her mouth set in a mock school marm scowl. "Is that all you ever think about?"

He lifted a brow. "Isn't that all _you_ ever think about?"

"Nooo," she proclaimed, giggling. "Keep those hands where I can see them. For now."

He felt good, comfortable; he snuggled his head deeper into his pillows as he met her concerned look. "You're keeping secrets from me." His tone was light yet his smile was dissolving like watercolors in the rain.

She ran her hands over his ruined right thigh, caressed the raw, pinkish crevice. "What?"

"Georgie told me."

"What kind of garbage has my brother been spewing now?"

He watched her caress his surgical scar. The skin along its edges shone like the smoothness of a boiled hot dog. Detestable. Disgusting...

"He said you knew how to ride a cycle." He cocked his head, clicked his tongue. "I don't remember you putting _that_ on your employment application."

...but her touch made that scar as close to okay as it would ever be--like it wasn't really a repellent reminder of the supreme gimp he was.

"Riding a cycle." Raising her eyes, she emitted an exasperated groan. "Sometimes Georgie doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut."

"So you used to like riding. Now for some reason you don't."

"My biking days are ancient history. Been there, done that."

"Aha! Thomas, the boyfriend, and Myrna, the eager young nymph, riding bikes, side by side, their hair blowing in the breeze..."

"We wore helmets."

"Oooh, more secrets revealed." He stroked his chin, narrowed his eyes. "What kind of bike?"

"A Shadow, if you have to know."

"Oooh, sooo-weet."

"Another time, another place. It's done." She told him, immersing herself in her work. Those supple hands moved over, under, around the hurt, massaging it, kneading it.

"Let me get this straight." His chatter started slowly before gradually picking up speed. "You won't ride now because you used to ride with Thomas and you feel like you can't do it anymore because it's ancient history and not part of your life with me."

"Right."

"Thomas." House lifted a forefinger and jabbed it at her. "Kinky Sex guy, right?"

"Yeah."

"So I guess the handcuffs are out from now on too."

"Uh...no. That's different," she said quickly, continuing her intense, _incredible_ massage. "Any other brilliant observations, Doctor?"

"I'm thinking..." A low gurgle of contentment rose from his throat.

"Relax," she whispered.

House blinked, once, twice, wanting just to watch her. Her face was a mask of concentration and something else. Quiet delight? She was enjoying this as much as he was. He blinked again and made the dreamy realization his head was nodding in rhythm with Myrna's ministrations.

"Where did you go with George?" she asked.

"Ohhh, you know...all the places the kids like to hang out these days. _Elmer's...Zog's."_

"My God, Greg." She shook her head as she applied more pressure to his thigh. She _pushed_ up and _pulled_ back, again and again with slow, delicious ease. "He must have been an absolute joy."

House lifted a brow, allowing his grin to break free but still putting up some mental resistance. He didn't want to fall completely under her spell, no matter how good she was making him feel. He wanted to talk not sink into a muzzy stupor. "He was...fine. I...intimidate him so he was easy to deal with. Plus he was all caught up in the little game I'd devised." He explained about the swearing, the money and the gradual, inevitable reduction of George's bounty.

"Don't worry," Myrna told him. "You probably won't have to pay out a dime."

"I know. Cool game, huh?"

He closed his eyes. Yeah, he was weakening. It was inevitable, he supposed.

_Can't you just relax and enjoy it, old man? You really are hopeless..._

But he wanted to stay awake, talk awhile...

It had been some time since Myrna had the opportunity to work this particular brand of wizardry on him. The daily grind, stress..._life_ generally got in the way.

His mouth went slack. The massage-meds combo were doing their best to drag him to sleep. Not yet. He didn't want to...just yet. House licked his lips. "Crying," he managed to say.

"Who's crying?"

"You."

"I'm not crying."

"You... were."

She stopped the massage. "How could you know that?"

"Don' stop." One of his hands effected a limp wave.

Her fingers went back to work.

"You got gooood hands."

"How did you know I was crying?" she asked after a beat.

"There's that itty bitty streak near the tear duct of your left eye. Did your best to wash away the evidence, huh? Guess you missed a spot." With some effort, he opened his eyes, one hand drifting toward her face. "Eyelids are pinkish...a little puffy."

She pressed her lips together, her fingers kneading and kneading that damaged flesh. House half grimaced, half grinned at the pain dappled pleasure. "Why?" he croaked.

"Don't you ever give it a break?"

"No."

Her sigh was a mix of exasperation and resignation. "My mother drove me nuts, tonight, Greg. That's all, same old complaint."

"Ice her."

"Huh?"

"Smash her head in...stuff her in a trunk...throw her in the Hudson." He smiled beatifically as his eyelids fluttered closed. "I'll supply...blunt instrument...be the lookout."

"Sounds good but I think I'll pass." Myrna said. "I don't want to be a fugitive on my honeymoon."

"Awww...why not?"

He could feel the softness of her fingers against his shoulders and neck, the brush of cotton as she drew the blanket over his arms and torso.

_Floating...drifting away with the tide, too far now to hear her response._

"_Bonnie and Clyde_," he muttered. Images of himself and Myrna as the notorious couple filled his dreams. They were cool: wielding shotguns, clad in fedoras and berets, barrelling down the highway in that Model T.

An announcer's voice, deep and rich, rolled from those dream skies like thunder. _They were the daring lovers, living life their own way, not taking any crap from anyone_...

And, oh, yeah...they were sexy as hell.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes they played a game called "Temptation".

Myrna would be in the kitchen, cooking up the morning eggs, brewing coffee, humming along softly to the song in her head. She hadn't bothered getting dressed or wrapping herself in her robe. Panties and t-shirt were good enough for breakfast time.

The TV was on. CNN. Every so often, Greg would shoot out a comment, a complaint, a sharp barb directed at the commentator. She flipped the eggs, poured the juice. That's when she felt the warmth closing in behind her, long fingers tracing the waistband of her panties, a slow caress of her butt-outside the fabric. Outside. This was the rule.

She hadn't noticed when he'd risen from the couch, hadn't heard the _step-thump_ of his uneven gait. The sneak factor was part of his particular magic...and the game.

That's when she shut the gas on the stove and turned, not caring that her panties twisted around his fingers and her hips in the process. An important part of the game was that he straighten those panties and not touch her belly or hips or dip his fingers into her...

She backed him into the counter. The dishes rattled, a pot clattered to the floor. His hands tangled in her hair as their mouths met, lips parted, their tongues swirled around each other in a rousing dance. He tasted like toothpaste, smelled like the Aramis she had bought him...just because. Teeth clicked against teeth as she pressed closer. She would have stubble burns on her chin if she kept this up. But that was oookay.

They would spend the day touching, caressing, kissing at odd moments when no one was around. Their long day of foreplay would culminate with an intense session of lovemaking at midnight...

_Bad luck doing this on the day before your wedding._ Cameron's warning played in her head. _Bad luck._

"_Ignore it_," Myrna told herself as the phone rang.

"Ignore it," Greg moaned. He nibbled Myrna's earlobe while waving a dismissive hand at the phone.

It rang until the machine picked up.

_"House?" _

James.

_"Pick up, House."_

There was silence, then a beleaguered sigh. _"This...is a call to remind you that you are getting married tomorrow. _

Myrna was seated on the kitchen table, her legs wrapped around Greg's hips, pulling him close.

_I assume you remembered but then I never like to assume anything when it comes to you._

Something in his eyes and the hard set of his jaw told her he wasn't going to make it until midnight. Hell, he wasn't going to make it through the next five minutes.

_The rings? I have them. Your suit? In the cleaners. Go pick it up today, this morning, whenever you're finished...doing whatever it is you're doing._

His hands were kneading her nipples. She grunted, released him from her leg hold, then eased off the table. After tossing him a wicked little smirk, she pressed against him then reached up on tiptoes to nip his neck...

...which caused him to throw back his head and growl like a bear in heat.

Her breathing quickened right along with his. It wouldn't be much longer before they both caved...

_WAITING UNTIL IT'S TOO LATE AND THEY CLOSE IS NOT AN OPTION!_

House had her by the hand, hobbling now, sans cane, dragging her toward the bedroom. Wilson continued his rant for another moment before clicking off.

"Greg..."

His fingers tightened around hers.

"...someone's knocking..."

He slowed his step, his shoulders rising and falling as he hung his head and closed his eyes. One hand cupped the protuberance pressing against the crotch of his jeans. "Don't answer it."

"We have to. Our cars are out there. They know we're here."

"Fuck 'em," he grumbled.

The knocking began again-now with a bit more urgency.

"Get the door," she told him.

"You get it."

"You're dressed. I'm not."

He opened his eyes and gave her one last appreciative look before heading for the door. "You'd better get dressed really fast if you want to stop me from murdering whoever this is."

In the time it took Myrna to change her panties, throw on a bra, t-shirt and jeans, she realized there was definitely trouble in paradise. Greg was yelling. A few choice words and a barrage of snide salvos exploded from his lips. Myrna was surprised to hear a woman respond, spouting out a roll call of icy barbs. Who was this ice queen adversary? She really was doing an admirable job of keeping her cool, probably well aware that arguing with Greg House was like fanning an open flame. Myrna smiled, gaining an odd respect for this unknown entity.

The moment she stepped into the living room, the 'discussion' flagged and died. All eyes were on her. Greg was irate, a vein throbbed in his temple, his chin jutting out as he threw her a 'don't get involved' look. Then there was Dr. Cuddy, folding her arms across her chest as her gaze touched Myrna's. Her look was sorrowful, apologetic...

...and then there was Cameron.

"And by the way," Greg snapped at Cuddy, "Who the fuck is minding the store?"

Cameron stood by the door. Her lips parted as her gaze hopped like a restless sparrow from Cuddy to Greg, before lighting on Myrna and nesting there. She offered a tentative smile, which Myrna hesitantly returned. Myrna thought about bed, her mind drifting to that delightful protuberance in Greg's jeans--now just a pleasant memory. She wished they hadn't answered the door.

"House, Cameron really wants to apologize," Cuddy said, her voice gentle, almost pleading.

"Then why are _you_ here?"

"You would have slammed the door in my face if I came alone," Cameron said.

Myrna had the notion this was Cameron's first foray into the conversation.

"So you're paying for protection from the big, bad boss?" One side of House's mouth quirked up. "I guess the stories about Cuddy packing a piece are true. Where is it?" His head whipped toward Cuddy again. "Down your blouse? Up your sleeve?"

"House," Cameron lifted her hands in an entreaty. "I'm sorry."

He indicated her bandaged hand with a flip of his fingers. "You got it wrong."

"What?"

"If you're going to slit your wrist it's about two inches down and on the _other_ side of your arm." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "You could have at least done us all a favor and gotten it right."

"Jesus Chrrrist, House," Cuddy hissed.

Cameron threw Cuddy a helpless look.

"Get..._out_." House sneered at both of them.

"Let me talk to her, Greg." Myrna touched his shoulder. She sensed it tense, as if he were preparing to shrug her away. But as he met her eyes the muscles in his shoulder relaxed. He gave her his silent, reluctant assent before turning his back on all of them and sauntering into the kitchen.

"Come on," Myrna said to Cam, indicating the door with a tilt of her head. "Let's take a walk."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today would have been a perfect day for the wedding: cloudless blue skies, the New Jersey air smelling less tainted than usual. The forecast for tomorrow was for scattered showers, high in the 70's. Not too shabby. Not great either. But at some point over the last twenty eight years, Myrna had been told that rain meant luck. Okay. She could take that, pocket it, let it be her talisman, a virtual good luck charm.

Tucking her hands in her pockets, she ambled down the sidewalk next to Cameron.

"Thanks for taking the time to talk to me," Cameron said.

"It's not a problem."

They turned the corner, spying a group of teenaged boys languishing outside the newsstand at the end of the block. Myrna wheeled around and motioned to Cameron to follow her back the way they came.

"What?"

"With your looks, trying to get past those kids could be more trouble than its worth." She smiled. "Come on. There's a bench by that bus stop."

Their heels _scritched _against the asphalt as they hurried across the road. They reached the bench, breathless, and flopped onto the hard seat. A moment passed. Then another. Finally Cameron fixed Myrna with a bemused look.

"What?" Myrna asked.

"You know, you're being awfully civil to someone who ruined your night out."

Myrna steepled her fingers under her chin. "Yeah, well. You...just seemed to have issues with me and, really, I'm not very confrontational. I figured the best thing for everyone would be if I went home."

Silence reigned again, only now it had become uncomfortable, pervasive. It made Myrna's teeth itch (a Toby expression Myrna used on rare occasions). A bus slowed and Myrna waved it on. She really had better things to do than sit here and wait for whatever self serving drivel Cameron was about to impart. Infuriation struck like a stick on a snare, causing Myrna to finally snap, "What's on your mind, Doctor?"

Cameron sighed seemingly oblivious to Myrna's annoyance. She kicked at a pebble then leaned back and spoke to the heavens. "When I first started working for him, I...developed a sort of, well...I liked him. He was different, obviously damaged goods. I thought, here's a guy who hiding his depth and character under all that brain power and anger. It both disturbed and intrigued me." She offered up a sad smile. "There was an attraction there. Stronger on my part, I guess." Her palms rubbed against the knees of her dress pants. "I thought, well, maybe someday something would happen to close the gap between us. There was always a gap, small but just enough to prevent us from..." She took a breath, ran her fingers through her hair.

"I know." Myrna stretched her legs out as another bus roared by.

"So when he told us he was getting married, I think I was more shocked than anyone." Cameron tapped her foot. "It was like I'd put in all the time and energy to impress him and got nothing for it. I got depressed, then angry and couldn't believe anyone besides Stacy and myself would want him. He's...infuriating.."

"That he is."

"You're so mellow." Cameron shifted to face her. "You'll be good for him. You'll calm him down. Make him easier to work wi-"

"No, I won't." Myrna turned to give Cameron a measured look. "He is who he is. I have no compunction to change him."

"But...he _will_ change. It's inevitable."

Cameron's regret was almost palpable. Her face fell and she resembled a pretty little seven year old who'd just learned the truth about Santa Claus.

"No. He won't," Myrna assured her.

It was a lie, of course. Greg would change. Only recently had Myrna sensed him inching closer to contentment. But he wasn't within shouting distance yet, not nearly ready to surrender. Myrna wasn't certain he ever would be. He was consumed by restlessness, a disdain for most humans and possessed a childishness that, at times, bordered on the infantile. Would all this one day put an end to The Myrna and Greg Show'? Maybe. But what the hell?. For now things were good. More than good, actually.

Cameron didn't have to know the truth. It wasn't any of her business.

"Don't be disappointed." Myrna shrugged. "He is who he is."

She was a broken record, repeating the same stupid lines over and over...

"I love him. It feels right being with him. We get along. I guess he likes me being around." Myrna lifted her shoulders slightly. "That's it."

"There..._has_ to be more than that." Cameron's gaze touched the sky again, which made her comment seem more like an entreaty to some unseen deity than part of the conversation. "How can a person get married, share their life with someone without _changing?"_

Myrna sighed, shrugged, not the least bit perturbed. "I couldn't tell you, Doctor."

"Listen. Would you...just please tell him I apologize? If I say it, he won't-"

Myrna's cell vibrated in her pocket. "Sorry. Excuse me." She pulled the phone out of her jeans, flicked it open and pressed it to her ear. The unmistakable voice of Frannie pummeled her from the other end. Myrna grunted a few monosyllabic responses before clicking off. "I really should be getting back."

Cameron nodded and rose from the bench. "You'll do it then?"

"What?"

"Tell him I'm sorry?"

Myrna's first inclination was to walk away. She wanted to be rid of this silly woman, who was still fixated on the unattainable. Cameron wore that guilt of hers like a party dress.

"Sure." Myrna gave her a thin smile. "I'll tell him."

-----------------------------------------------------------------

"Cameron's sorry."

Greg glowered at her.

"That's...what I thought you'd say."

"Great." His brow furrowed. "Any more news flashes?"

"My mother wants me to take her to lunch."

A plate of cold scrambled eggs rested on the coffee table. Greg pressed his fork into them, moving his face in close, seeming to scrutinize how resolutely they clung to the tines.

"And, just to remind you: tonight we have to go to dinner with your parents."

Greg popped a forkful of the eggs into his mouth, grimacing. "Cold scrambled eggs suck," he announced as he chewed.

A few moments earlier, Myrna had returned to the apartment, a morose Cameron shuffling behind her. Affecting a nauseating cheeriness, Myrna presented Cameron to Cuddy like she was returning a library book. The women said their farewells without lingering, and Myrna was never so happy to see two people go away.

"We don't _have_ to do anything."

"Yes, we do, Greg."

He gave her a hard look. "We're free, solvent and over twenty-one. That means we can do what we want without asking the grownups. You know why?"

"Because we are the grownups," she said.

"Pretty neat, huh?" He pushed the plate away. "Call your mother. Tell her you came down with the galloping trots. Pre-wedding jitters."

"No." Myrna said. "That would just present a whole new set of problems."

"Hmm. Okay, here's an idea." He licked yellow remnants off the fork, then tossed it onto the plate. "Spend lunchtime with your brother. You can bond, exchange recipes."

"Yeah, right. And who's going to be in charge of the care and feeding of the beast?"

It never failed to amaze her how vibrantly Greg's eyes twinkled when he donned his most conniving grin.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **I thought I would explain some of the Yiddish terms used in this chapter _before _you start reading. _Shvartze _is a neutral term meaning black, however it can have a derogatory connotation, depending on how it is used. _Daven _means to recite Jewish liturgical prayers, usually done while swaying or rocking lightly. A _mensch_ is a good guy. _Fukokta_ means crazy or inane. A _goy _is a non-Jew, another word that is generally derogatory. _Chutzpah _means nerve or audacity. _Gott Im Himmel _is German for _God in Heaven_. Hope that helps, and thanks for reading.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Beta: **Thank you, **NaiveEve.**

**-14-**

Somewhere along the way she must have done something wrong. She was being punished, there was no doubt about it. Frannie was a woman, a _mother_ who had devoted her life to her children. And a woman who puts her children's needs ahead of her own should be rewarded, not handed such trials.

She must have done a very bad thing.

Just look at her Georgie, lounging on the bed like he was Lord King of the World. Those _things_ were in his ears, that horrible jungle music blasting through them. The volume was so loud _she_ could hear it. _Fffft! _By the time he was thirty he would be deaf. But did he care? Did he listen to her? And look at how he bobbed his head up and down like he was davening. But would he ever daven? Would he ever stand in a holy place and bow his head to God? No. He wouldn't go to synagogue to pray but he would bow down to the terrible people who made that _music._ Where was the fairness in that?

And what did she do that was so wrong?

Oh, and to make matters a whole lot worse, that...crippled _goy_ Myrna was marrying took Georgie out and bought him new CeeDees. He was actually encouraging the boy to listen to that clattertrap. How was that helping anything? To ostracize your future mother-in-law was no way to make your entrance into a new family. But she shouldn't have expected anything more from this...Doctor House.

Doctor or no, he looked like trash, not like a _mensch, _like that other man...James. What a catch James would have been for Myrna. Jew or no Jew, he was the perfect example of what Myrna should have looked for in a husband. Sophisticated...handsome and smart. But no, Myrna always went for trashy types...like Thomas. He was an arrogant fool who swaggered around like he owned the world. This Doctor House would have a swagger like that too--if he weren't a cripple.

"Georgie." Frannie stood at the foot of his bed, tugging at her earlobes as a signal for him to pull the plug on the music.

He either didn't notice or didn't _want _to notice. He was mouthing along with those _rappers_, his head bobbing to the beat. He looked like a chicken, a ridiculous clucking bird.

Frannie clenched her fists and pressed her lips together, attempting to stifle the scathing words clamoring to break free. They were coming. She sensed the first tremors of the quake, the first cracks in the earth. Such insolence she was forced to deal with. She had done nothing to deserve this treatment, yet it was all she got from everyone.

She yanked an earbud from her son's ear, making the terrible rap noise that much more pervasive. She could hear actual words now: curses, terrible foul language and Georgie was mouthing that too, like he was reciting some kind of twisted nursery rhyme.

"This is awful, Georgie. Why can't you listen to real music? Something with nice words. There are so many beautiful songs..."

He glared at her and then at the white wire dangling from her fingers.

"Georgie," she snapped. "Can't you see I'm trying to talk to you?"

"I don't want to talk right now, Mom." He made a 'gimme' motion with his hand.

"_Fffft! _What is _this?" _Her jaw dropped as she mimicked his gesture. He had never been so arrogant.

"Greg does it."

"Oh, really? Greg does it?"

Georgie snatched his earbud from her. She gave him a scowl, planted her hands on her hips and watched him push the earpiece back into place. In the span of one evening, this Greg House had corrupted Georgie more than Georgie's friends ever had. Frannie resolved that it was going to stop. Today.

She hadn't survived widowhood and raising two children alone without being crafty. Her ace in the hole was now what it had always been: surprise. Her appearance was hardly imposing: a skinny, diminutive fifty-seven year old woman who looked like a feather could knock her over. But the schoolteachers, insurance agents, loan officers and other similar types she had come up against over the years all learned never to underestimate her. Frannie always, _always _got what she wanted.

Doctor House had yet to experience Frannie Bromfeld's wrath. Once he did, he was sure to be sorry he had ever crossed her. With any luck, he would be so intimidated by her and feel such shame in his slovenly appearance, his poor manners and his _chutzpah, _he would gratefully slink out of Myrna's life. And that would be that. It would be for the best. A learning experience. Myrna would get over it, maybe even return home to Minnesota-where she belonged.

In Frannie's mind, the scenario played out like a four star movie: the arguing, the tears, the breakup, the 'I told you so's'. But this was no Hollywood fantasy. This was real life, and it _would_ happen. Even if the wedding took place, could the marriage could be annulled? Frannie would certainly look into the possibility. Such was the power of her conviction. Myrna would see reason and realize this man was not nearly good enough for her.

Mother always knew best.

She wrenched the earbuds from Georgie's ears, "Get washed up. Your sister is taking us to lunch."

"You go," he muttered. "I'll get a burger downstairs."

"You...will...not." She stomped her foot. "Get-"

Someone was knocking at the door, the sound insistent and sharp, grating on Frannie's nerves.

"Get _up_, Georgie." Frannie shouted. He continued to bob his head, even though the buds in his hands had gone silent. The music must have ended, thank the Lord.

Why did life have to be so hard?

She hurried to the door, hoping Myrna was behind it. Myrna had a calming influence. She could make George see reason, get him off his butt and _listen._ Even if her mind _was_ in outer space these days, Myrna could still be a positive influence on George.

"You are not staying here by yourself."

"What the hell, Mom?"

"I am warning you."

"Shit."

"_Gott im himmel_," Frannie moaned as she peered through the peek hole. "Myrna." She had never been so glad to see the girl. She pulled open the door, already spewing the first commands of the day. "Talk to your brother," she snapped, "he's being impossible."

Myrna entered the room slowly, like she didn't quite feel her best. She wasn't sick, no, just...out of sorts. Her usually pink cheeks were pale; she looked tired. Perhaps she hadn't slept well last night. Maybe she was having second thoughts about this marriage. Frannie held her elation in check because it could be something else. Maybe (God forbid) Myrna was pregnant.

Myrna's eyes wandered the room, restless, troubled.

Frannie narrowed her eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Myrna said quickly.

"Your brother will not listen to me. He refuses to take those _things_ out of his ears."

"He doesn't have them in his ears now, Mom," Myrna said softly, somehow managing to throw a small smile George's way.

"You okay, Myrn?" George's look of belligerence changed to one of concern.

Myrna lowered her head, brushing the toe of her shoe against the carpet. "You want to go to lunch, George?"

"See?" Frannie snatched her purse off the dresser. "That sounds like a good idea. We passed a nice Italian place just down the street. We'll go there-"

"I asked George, Mom." She licked her lips, took a breath. "Not you."

Frannie might as well have been gut punched; she took one stumbling step back as her breath escaped her in a long whistling wheeze. Myrna and Georgie, _her children, _were excluding her and didn't feel a lick of remorse. Not one little bit. They just...stared at her. Georgie thought it was funny. The corners of his mouth trembled. He was going to laugh at her. Laugh at his mother! Myrna just stood there like the foolish girl she was: sad eyed but resolute.

This was unacceptable. Absolutely deplorable. And when Frannie found her voice she would tell them so. It was insolence, arrogance, _chutzpah_...

The door drifted open. Frannie might not have even noticed, except that the hinges squeaked... a little. Now she would have to call downstairs, tell someone to come up with the WD40. There was no excuse for a squeaky door in what was touted to be a four star hotel...

Outside the door something _thumped. _Georgie sniggered. Myrna folded her arms and looked at her shoes.

"What is going on?"

_Thump...thump...thump._

Frannie's pounding footfalls brought her to the door. It was open just enough so she could see the royal blue carpet, the room service tray by the door across the hall. The tray was loaded with soiled plates, on top of which lay a half eaten strawberry nestled between two pink tinged wine glasses. Some cheap classless...trash was having a little party, a damn swell old time. It was a Friday afternoon. Don't people have any sense of decorum? Don't they know there is a time and place for-

_Thump...thump...thwack!_

With a gasp, Frannie jerked out of range of the rubber tip of a cane. It had been gunning for her ankles and had...just missed, connecting with the door frame instead.

"_Woah...," _Georgie breathed.

The door opened wider, propelled by the force of the cane. And when the owner of that cane sauntered in the room, Frannie automatically took two unsteady steps back. She couldn't help gawping at the nerve, at the audacity of this...this...mess of a man, this..._cripple. _Her speech center was under siege; there was much she wanted to say but her words were frozen, stuck in her gullet, choking her.

"You really should watch your step, Frannie." Doctor House brandished his cane, then gave it a twirl before setting its tip against the carpet. "You never know what sort of nastiness life has up its sleeve."

George giggled.

"Shut up, George." House said, his eyes never leaving Frannie's.

If he thought he was going to get away with this behavior--making her look like a fool in front of her children--he was very much mistaken.

And Myrna? Frannie had never been so disappointed with her daughter. The girl should be defending her mother. But no. She had moved beside the cripple, her chin up in that silly defiant way of hers, like _that_ was going to make a difference in how this all panned out.

"This man almost assaulted me, Myrna. He shouted at your brother. You're going to let him get away with it?" Frannie's words tumbled out in a rush, her throat hot, her cheeks burning.

Myrna shrugged. "It looks that way, doesn't it, Mom?."

"I am ashamed of you."

"Lunchtime, chop, chop!" The cripple hitched his cane under one arm, clapping his hands three times, like he was casting a spell. "Get along, kids."

"And who put you in charge?" Frannie set her hands on her hips, intending to set him straight right this instant.

"Why, Frannie...I think this might be the day you never thought would come."

Her eyes widened as her shoulders sagged. He didn't look deflated at all. If anything, he seemed energized.

"Myrna and Georgie need a break from you, so I've come to save the day."

Georgie cackled.

"Get him out of here, Myrna." He waved an impatient hand at the bed, keeping those eyes fixed on Frannie.

"Let's go to lunch," he said.. "It'll be Frannie and the gimp. My treat." A slow grin spread across his face as he raised his brows. "We have so much to talk about."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

She squeezed herself against the passenger door of the Corvette, putting as much distance between herself and the cripple as possible. Not much room in this thing. But her unease stemmed more from the situation than her proximity to the man.

He treated her was like she wasn't even here. Once she'd settled into her seat and strapped herself in, the cripple busied himself with driving too fast and twiddling with the radio dial. He made the car squeal around corners, turned the radio too loud and guffawed at the announcer's stupid jokes. Then, to make matters worse, he put on a CeeDee, some howling wretched thing that made her want to throw herself out of the car.

They stopped at a light. Frannie peered out her window, anxiety making her stomach ache as the light turned green. They were traveling deeper into this terrible neighborhood. Now the old _schvartze_ on the CeeDee was wailing about a train he had missed. Too many black people were on the streets, a good number of Spanish people were wandering around too--probably all living on welfare. Dregs. Filth. Suspicious looking young men lingered around storefronts, smoking cigarettes. One of them caught her glare and gave it back to her.

_Insolence. Chutzpah._

"Where are you taking me?" she wailed, finally.

"Lunch."

"But _where?"_

"That," he said, checking his rearview as he changed lanes, "would be telling".

She ducked her head, wanting to press her hands against her ears, wishing this whole day would just...go away. But no, she wasn't about to give the crippled _goy_ the satisfaction. She stole a look at him. He was tapping a finger against the steering wheel, warbling along with the colored man.

"What is this...noise?" She couldn't stop the words from tumbling from her lips.

"Why, it's the blooos, Frannie." One corner of his mouth lifted, making her sorry she'd asked. "Robert Johnson's _Love In Vain_. You likee?"

"It's terrible."

"Ooh, that stings."

"_Fffft! _And why, tell me, would you care what I think?"

They turned down a side street. The asphalt here was cracked and broken. The Corvette rumbled over the rubble, rattling and clattering as it spewed a series of noisy complaints. Sunshine kept clear of these graffiti riddled walls, these rust dappled fire escapes. The brick building was infused with shadows, those dark fingers stretching up and over grime streaked windows.

"It's our wedding song."

Frannie ran her tongue over her lower lip, not sure whether to believe him. There was no trace of a smirk on his face. No sign that he was pulling her leg.

"My daughter would never agree to such a thing."

He chuckled, throwing her a smile so devoid of 'niceness' it could only be called malicious. "Your daughter picked the song, Frannie. " His voice held a terrible note of triumph. "Shows how much you know about the little girl in your life."

Frannie sniffed, deciding she was absolutely on target about him.

Greg House, the crippled _goy_, was a hateful, hateful man.

------------------------------------------------------------------

She wouldn't eat. She decided this the moment they entered the dive, this poor excuse for a dining establishment. He'd brought her here to unnerve her, to torment her. The faded lettering on the door told her the place was called _Elmer's. _What kind of _fukokta_ name was that for a diner? The floors were sticky and stained, the leather seats was cracked. Gray stuffing poked out of the fissures in places, like a group of old ladies were trapped inside, waiting patiently to be released. The tables were rickety wooden things: not fit for a backyard barbecue much less a place where people spent good money to eat.

They sat across from one another, five booths from the door. Through the window she could see the cripple's red Corvette flanked by an ancient dented Chevy and two motorcycles. Beyond the parking lot traffic flew by. She fiddled with her napkin, wishing she could leave. Maybe she could. Maybe there was a bus...

_Tap, tap, tap!_

"Wakee, wakee, Frannie." Cripple tapped his fork once more against the table. "No time for mulling over all the wondrous ways of avoiding the issues."

She gawped at him, stunned.

"That trick is only for experts like me to know." He glanced down at his placemat and frowned. "And I don't give my secrets away." He raised one hand and looked around for the waitress. "Yo."

"Do you have to do that?" Frannie snapped.

"Yes."

"You're embarrassing me."

"Really?" He turned to her slowly, lips peeled back, white teeth gleaming--so bright against the dark stubble. "If I decide to embarrass you," His grin widened, "you'll be very, very sorry."

The waitress moved from behind the counter, her footfalls heavy and plodding as she lumbered down the length of the diner.

_You'll be very, very sorry. _

Those words, spoken in that subtle yet intimidating tone, ate at Frannie's innards.

_Forget it._ _Think about something else. Oh, yes, what about that waitress? She looks like a real bundle of fun..._

Pleased to discover this small diversion, Frannie donned a haughty smirk and gave the waitress a quick, critical scrutiny: Her hair was too blonde; she wore an overabundance of rouge, that lipstick was too red, she could have used to lose about thirty pounds.

"No, you can't make me!" Greg blurted out.

The few diners at the counter turned to gape at this new development in their day.

Cripple slapped his hands against the unwieldy table, causing it to shudder and Frannie to flinch.

"I _will not_ have sex with you, Mom."

Frannie's jaw tightened as her fingers clenched her thighs. Silently, desperately, she willed some entity to come along and stuff an apple in this madman's mouth to shut him up. She could feel the bite of her nails through her dress slacks. Later she would find angry red marks on her skin.

"You have some nerve," she gasped, scrambling around in her head, trying to make sense of this horrible day. She couldn't recall the last time she had been this mortified, a time murder did not seem such a far fetched solution to her problems.

"No. You can beg, plead, throw money. But I _will not have sex with you_...not after what happened...last time."

"Shut up! You horrible, horrible-"

The waitress appeared, her arms folded, seemingly ready for anything. Cripple raised his head and gave her a charming grin. "Ah, Selma. Still here, I see. Can't get enough of this greasy spoon?"

Nonplussed, Selma took a few chomps on her gum before retrieving her pen and order pad from the pocket of her blouse. "You folks know what you want?"

Frannie opened her mouth. She planned to say she did not want _anything_ that passed for food in this hole, but never got farther than putting her tongue to her teeth.

"Two orders of fish tacos and two Cokes." He winked at Selma. "And let's replace these boring white placemats with the other kind. You know, the ones with those cool underwater scenes."

"You want crayons?"

"NO!" Frannie bleated.

"Oh, of course we do." Cripple reached over and grasped Frannie's hand before she could pull away. "She just doesn't want to be any trouble." He tilted his head and offered Frannie a saccharine smile. "But she just can't help it."

Selma lumbered off, shaking her head, while Frannie wrenched her hand away from this abhorrent excuse for a human...

This wasn't happening. It was some sort of nightmare. Maybe she was still on the plane and had yet to meet Myrna's intended. In her daydream he turned out to be James. He and Myrna would honeymoon in the south of France. He would lavish diamonds on her, treat his mother-in-law with the respect she so truly deserved...

She smiled at the thought, her gaze wandering to the mustachioed man two booths away. He pushed the last of a burger into his mouth and gave her a sloppy grin.

"Sooo, having a nice day, Fran?" Cripple was tapping his fork again. It set her teeth on edge.

"No."

"Good."

His blue eyes twinkled, reminding her the world was a nest of unfairness. A horrible person like this man should never have been blessed with such beautiful eyes.

"What's good about it?" she spat.

"Oh, poor you, Fran. You are just so put upon. Nasty old world, isn't it?" Those stunning eyes widened. "But it seems like you might just be getting the picture."

She cringed. The longer she sat here, the more intensely the man seemed to _glow_.

"Picture of what?" she asked.

"Of what it's like being saddled with you," he said slowly, leaning forward, "of having to deal with your whining, your crit-eeques. Well, here's a news flash: nobody gives a rat's ass what _you _want or what _you_ think. When you go on and on, nobody thinks it's fun or cute or 'mom' just having one of her moments. Your children are sick to death of you." His lips quirked his annoyance. "Hell, _I'm_ sick of you and I've only known you a day."

She puffed out her chest, folding her hands stiffly before her. "What you don't understand is that I have the life experience to teach a lesson. _I _am a wise woman."

Selma returned with the placemats, crayons and Cokes. With an easy flourish, she set the drinks and crayons on the table and replaced the 'boring' placemats with the 'cool' ones.

"Frannie has life experience, Selma." Cripple gave the waitress an earnest look.

Selma chomped her gum, giving Frannie a quick once over. "I'll bet," she said and plodded away.

"I've been through marriage and widowhood." Frannie was on a roll. "Bringing up a teenager at my age is difficult-

"Oh, and you're doing a hell of a job. George must be a pillar of his community."

"I am a wise woman. I tell people how they should act so they can better themselves."

"The world according to Frannie." He picked up a green crayon and began filling in the smiling fish's gills. "Color your picture."

"I will not."

His head remained lowered but his gaze lifted to meet hers. He looked like a bull ready to charge. "Color the damn picture or I'll leave you here in ghettoville. You can make your own way back."

"_Fffft! _Myrna would come get me."

"Myrna has better things to do."

"What? Like marry a _goyish _gimp like you?"

The Cripple lifted his soda to his lips. He chugged it down then leaned back with a satisfied smirk and let out a long belch.

"That is absolutely disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself."

With great care, he set the glass and his crayon on his placemat, then threw Frannie a nod and a wink.

"Don't do that."

He raised his fists over his head, like a triumphant prize fighter...

"What are you-?

...and _pounded_ the table, which tilted up and back in response. Frannie's glass wobbled like a tenpin, looking like it might almost right itself. But gravity prevailed and the glass _clunked_ over, spilling the brown fizzy liquid over Frannie's side of the table.

Greg arched a brow. "Oops."

Pretty soon, Frannie's crayons, placemat, the thighs of her trousers and the lower half of her blouse were saturated.

"Wow, can't take you anywhere, Fran."

She lifted her arms and...gawped at the damage, as if some creature might rise from the mess and explain it all to her. The mess seemed the safest place to set her gaze. Farther down the row of booths, some unsympathetic soul was sniggering. But she wouldn't give the derelict the satisfaction of a response. It was safer staring at the liquid pond spreading its little brown tendrils in all directions. It was best not look at any of the curious diners, the short order cook, Selma the waitress or..._him. _Especially not him.

He was...a monster.

Selma arrived with a handful of napkins, a dish towel and a sponge. She handed Frannie the napkins, rescued the glass from the puddle and wiped down the table. "Come on out of there for a minute, honey." She motioned to Frannie. "Let me dry off that seat."

"She's just fine, Selma. Aren't you, Frannie?" The monster nodded, and Frannie found herself matching his motions while gulping back a sob.

"Hey, Selma." He waved a crayon at the waitress. "How 'bout those tacos?"

Selma squinted at two of them, her lips twisting into a bemused smirk. "Comin' up," she muttered, heading for the kitchen.

"I would like to leave now." Frannie laid the napkins over her trousers, which did nothing to accelerate the drying process. The napkins were rapidly reaching their absorption point, turning the color of watered down cola. She sighed then looked through her wallet, checking her finances. "I can get a cab."

"You...will stay put."

She considered defiance, thought about how she could just get up and leave, sodden clothes and all. But for the first time in a long time, she was going to have to silently concede. Her energy had flagged. She felt somehow...too old for this.

"Here's the plan, Frannie." Using two fingers, the monster straightened his placemat, then lifted a crayon and began to work on his art again. "You're going to dry off while you eat your lunch."

"I'm not hungry." A cold stone found a cozy place in her chest as she realized she sounded exactly like a pre-tantrum Georgie.

"After you eat...and you _will _eat. I'm going to drop you off at your hotel where you can spend the rest of the day wondering _where oh where did I go wrong? _" He let loose with an exaggerated sob while scrutinizing his artwork.

"Leave me alone now." Her voice was much too soft; any residual fight she might have had left was on a westbound train, goin' home.

"You made Myrna cry." The monster's accusation fell slowly and evenly from his lips.

Swallowing thickly, Frannie, rooted through her purse, seeking out a tissue. The napkins on her lap were now completely soaked through, and she didn't dare ask for _his_.

"I never saw Myrna cry in the six months we were going out, now you show up and I see tears. You upset her." He studied his artwork, then lifted his red crayon and added color to the fish lips. "Do you think we should let that continue, Fran?" He tapped the point of the crayon against his placemat as he evaluated his work. "Needs more green."

Frannie remained silent as she dabbed at her trousers with a thin, useless tissue.

"Ding, ding, ding. _Bzzzzzt! _Time's up, Fran. The correct answer is 'no'." Sniggering, he leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands.

Selma arrived with a tray of tacos and drink refills. She set the plates and sodas on the table before disappearing as fast as her legs could carry her.

"Stop this. Just...stop." Frannie shook her head, her gaze falling to the culinary creation on her plate, then at _him._

The monster was hungry. His mouth was already stuffed to the max, cheeks as full as a chipmunk's in winter.

She averted her gaze, lifted her fork and poked at the taco's innards. Reluctantly, she took a taste, blinking and scowling as she chewed and swallowed. Actually...it wasn't bad.

"How does it feel to lose your daughter, Fran?" House cooed after sipping his drink. "To her credit she's been re-ally patient with you. I would have told you to go to hell a long time ago." His head tilted one way, then the other. "I happen to know she's this close to wishing you'd take off for parts unknown and never come back."

The taco was in her hands (which she only just realized were trembling). A few pieces of the fish nuggets fell on her plate as she leaned forward to take a hearty bite.

"Doesn't seem to bother you much. Guess you have other things going on in your little world: Canasta games, casino trips, how to get rid of Georgie's rap music..."

She wondered if she could get the recipe for this fish taco. Georgie might eat it...

"Well, heck, Fran, it's only another day and then you'll be gone. Just one more reason to celebrate."

It couldn't be too difficult to make this dish. She could even add rice and vegetables to create a real meal...

_One more day_.

"Now, here's the scoop: you are going to behave until after the wedding. Then you and MC "G" have my permission to leave. Really, I insist. You don't have to bother coming to the reception. Make some lame excuse. Myrna will understand."

Yes, George would really like this taco. It certainly was different.

"Oh, one last thing, Fran: ruining Myrna's wedding day is the same exact thing as ruining Greg's wedding day. And, believe me, Frannie, old gal, you don't want to do that."

She finished up her taco, every last bit, without once looking into the monster's eyes.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **Thanks to all who've been reading and/or reading and reviewing. So glad you're enjoying the story!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Beta: **Thank you , **NaiveEve.**

**-15-**

House was tired.

As much as he'd enjoyed giving Frannie a good portion of her own back, the effort and the mind play drained him. She was a hard case. She was also certifiable. He saw it in her eyes. It was pretty obvious that whatever doubt and fear he had ingrained in her over lunch wouldn't last.

When he dropped her off at her hotel, he sensed her air of self importance returning. It was the way she raised her nose to offer a haughty sniff , the way she glared at him when she thought he wasn't looking. Her conceit and arrogance were living things, made up of cells that regenerated at the speed of a lightning strike. By tomorrow, hell, by tonight, the intimidation factor would have said _sayonara_, and the old Frannie would be back in full swing.

He would hate for Myrna's day to be ruined because Frannie felt she had to prove herself. If Frannie pulled a stunt, if she even looked at him the wrong way tomorrow, how would he react?

_Who the hell are you kidding? You know how you'd react. It would be 'the party's over, it's time to call it a day', pardner._

To cut her down in front of a crowd would give him a lovely, warm feeling--really make his spirit sing. But Myrna? On the outside, she would be fine with it. Inside? Yeah, that would be the key now wouldn't it?

He knew her pretty well. She had a great capacity for keeping her feelings bottled up. The times she didn't want to talk he didn't press. There was nothing worse than being goaded into spilling your guts when you just didn't want to. But sadness? Some..._thing_ tugged at him when she was sad; its tiny persistent fingers plucked at his innards, making him ache.

_It's not the Gregory House Show anymore, is it, old man?_

Sometimes caring was overrated.

Second thoughts _had _begun to assault him. Not often, but enough to give him pause. He might be reading or involved in a differential with his team or stealing Wilson's chips when, out of the blue, an attack would blindside him.

_What are you doing? _The thought would hit him and he would have to retire to his office to seriously think it over.

It was simple. He was doing something he wanted to do. Marriage seemed... interesting. Different. Yeah, love was mixed up in that stew somewhere.

House pulled into his parking space, turned off the ignition and scrutinized his suit. It was hanging over the passenger window, all pressed and wrapped up like a shroud in its dry cleaning bag. The suit was gray, it fit him well. Myrna picked it out. She told him it went with his eyes, which was probably the 'girliest' thing she'd ever said. It made him laugh, made the second thoughts go away for a while.

He emerged from the car, toting his suit over his shoulder and checking his watch. Three o'clock. In four hours it would be dinner with the folks, which he refused to obsess over. Myrna seemed comfortable with it, even though House had given her the lowdown, leaving very few things out. Yes, they would seem like nice people. His mother would probably take Myrna under her wing and be thrilled with the fact that she was nothing like Stacy. Where Stacy was all sharp edges and abrasive wit, Myrna was softer, quieter, a listener. His father? Well, he would have a hard enough time believing someone like Myrna would agree to marry his son. According to him, Stacy was a slut and therefore a perfect match for the disappointing product of his loins. John still wondered aloud in House's presence how any other man could have wanted her, much less made her an 'honest' woman.

_One more day._

He yawned as he entered his building and considered getting a couple hours of sleep. He was beat. Of course, naptime with Myrna would invariably turn into sex, which would last the length of the proposed nap.

_You'd be even more tired at the end but a lot less tense. Decent tradeoff._

Stepping into the silent apartment, his lips curled slightly at the thought of Myrna riding him, her breasts swaying to the rhythm of their combined moans. But reality wrenched the rousing thoughts from his head. What he saw made him freeze in his tracks and requisition some additional support from his cane.

_Should have realized the place was too quiet. Nevermind that now. Take deep breaths, deep and calming. In with the good, out with the bad..._

His motions were underwater slow as he move to place the crook of the suit hanger over the bedroom doorframe. All the while, he wondered what the hell happened here.

He turned toward the sofa, preparing himself for the worst.

Georgie sat beside Myrna, whose cheeks shone with tears yet to be dabbed dry. She twisted a limp tissue in her lap. Snowflake-like pieces of it dotted the thighs of her jeans. She was sobbing...almost silently, as if this sadness was a secret too painful and pathetic to reveal.

George? He looked scared. Like a felon caught with the goods, he stared straight ahead, his jaw working. It didn't seem likely he would meet House's scrutiny anytime soon, which didn't matter. House caught the guilt in the kid's body language, the flare of his nostrils.

_Half your day has been wasted with idiocy already, let's go for broke..._

House took one step toward the sofa...then stopped.

"Alright," He _thumped _his cane against the floor. "What the hell happened?"

Myrna sobbed again and raised her eyes to meet his...and it was like he'd been...

...gut punched. Her sadness overwhelmed him. The ache was like a poison flowing through his veins, capillaries, muscle tissue, making pit stops at one vital organ after another, wearing him down.

"I...don't want to have to play twenty questions here," he managed to say.

Myrna turned to her brother, pressing her lips together so hard, they looked like a slim, bloodless wound. "Show him," she hissed.

George's hands trembled. He clasped his fingers around his thighs and bit his lip.

"SHOW HIM!" Myrna jabbed a fist into Georgie's arm, causing him to cower and whine.

House took another step forward, giving them both a bemused look. He had never heard Myrna lose it, never witnessed this blatant display of temper. It was...interesting.

"Show me...what?"

George tears finally broke free; his hiccupping sobs were juvenile, like those of a boy half his age.

"Cut the crap, George, "House's brow furrowed as his fingers clasped and unclasped the head of his cane.

"Okay." George's tears stopped immediately. It was...amazing how those waterworks had so quickly gone dry.

"Show him." Myrna's voice shook.

For the first time since they'd been together, House couldn't seem to meet her eyes. Coping with that pain, _her _pain was too daunting a task. Again he was stymied. No one had ever affected him this way. His own pain had always been _it_--the main concern-for himself and anyone who cared to deal with his crap. It was just the way things were in Gregland, the way he figured life would be forever and ever and always...

_But Myrna was sad..._

House inhaled sharply and blinked as George reached into the deep pocket of his Cargo shorts to retrieve...something.

"Stand up, big man." Myrna punched her brother's arm again. "Bi-ig man."

George pushed himself off the sofa, wobbling slightly as he got to his feet. He stood opposite House on the other side of the coffee table, slowly extending a closed hand.

"What's this?" An amber vial fell from Georgie's hand into House's waiting palm. The contents of the vial rattled in that deliciously familiar way.

House squinted at the vial as if it might just decide to explain itself. One long moment passed before the silence grew oppressive, beating down like a scorching summer sun. House raised his eyes, his gaze meeting the top of Georgie's backwards cap.

"Look at me."

George lifted his head. A fresh contingent of tears stood in his eyes, like a squad awaiting orders.

_A waste. The boy was a total candy ass waste_. House's gaze flicked to Myrna.

"It dropped out of his bag when he was showing me those CD's you bought him." She sat on the edge of the sofa, despair swimming in those green pools. That despair held him for another long moment before he wrenched his attention back to George.

"Did you find it...or steal it?"

"I-"

"You...what?"

"I'm..._fuckin' _sorry," George shouted.

"For WHAT?"

"For...stealing your meds."

A corner of House's mouth twitched. "How?" He flipped the cap off the vial with his thumb, tucked the cap into his front jeans pocket.

George sobbed and sniffed.

House raised his cane, pressed the tip against George's shoulder and _shoved_. The kid stumbled back while wheeling his arms, somehow managing to catch his balance. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Don't give me any of your sorry crap." House said. "Answer the question."

"I saw them...sticking out of your jacket...on the bike. I was...gonna push them in...you know...so they wouldn't fall out. But...I...kind of...took them...instead."

"You...kind of took them," House said.

"Yeah. I did."

Something played in George's eyes, some wisp of pride, a touch of conceit. He seemed to be the proud owner of a new revelation: this totally fresh caper he could relate to his boys when he got home. "Yeah."

House turned the vial upside down, the pills falling, tumbling and clattering onto the table.

"Can you count?"

"Yeah." George's wiped his nose and eyes on his sleeve again. His tears had fled. Now he seemed almost...elated.

"Count those." House indicated the pills with a broad sweep of his hand.

Lips moving, Georgie's eyes lighted on each pill before moving on...

"Out loud, genius."

"One...two...three...four...five...six." George raised his head quickly. He wore a thin smile. His cheeks were pale, one quivering drop of sweat clung to his left temple.

"I count my meds before I leave the house," House said. "But you know that now, don't you, Einstein?"

"Uh..."

"Yeah..._uh_."

Myrna had stopped sobbing, her shoulders steady now, eyes wide as two saucers as she watched...

_Sad..._

"Can you add?"

Georgie shrugged. "Yeah," he croaked.

"Then riddle me this, Batman--if I start my night with eight pills and for some wacky reason end the night with six, how many pills have mysteriously..." House spread the fingers of one hand, as if exhibiting a feat of prestidigitation. "...vanished?"

"Uh..." Georgie's mouth fell open.

"_Uh! _Yes, I know. The math is sooo tough."

"Two," George lowered his head.

"Look at me!" House swatted Georgie's hat. The hat went flying, landing somewhere behind the couch.

George raised his eyes, fixing House with an expression of newfound bravado.

"Give me back my pills." House held out his hand.

Tossing out a smug grin, George flopped back onto the couch. "I already gave them to you."

"George."

Myrna was standing now, looming over her brother. When had she gotten to her feet? House couldn't recall. He'd been too intent on the boy.

"You did something wrong. Own up to it. Give Greg back his meds so I can take you back to the hotel."

"I-" His smile wavered, replaced quickly by a twisted frown of defeat. He jabbed one hand down deep into the pocket of his shorts and came up with the goods. "Here."

"Thank you, George." Myrna turned, then dropped the pills into House's waiting palm. "Now apologize."

"Sorry, Myrn."

"Apologize to Greg."

George bowed his head and shook it slowly. "Shit. No."

"That's alright, Myrna. The game is over. All bets are off. I get to keep the money, you get to deal with the dynamic duo." House popped the pills in his mouth, dry swallowed. "Get him home to mommy." He arched a brow. "My goodness, she must be _frantic_ by now."

George threw him a glare. "Listen, man-"

But House was done listening to George and to Frannie. The only one he would give an ear to was Myrna, and she wasn't talking.

He grabbed his suit off the doorframe and stepped into the bedroom. After closing the door behind him, he tossed the suit onto the bed and headed for the dresser. Minutes passed. He didn't know how long he stood staring at the jars of Myrna's skin creams, his own two bottles of cologne, his Vicodin vials and the ten ten dollar bills he had set aside for the betting game. Yeah, he had to admit, the game idea had been a good one. Money was an excellent way of impressing your will on a kid.

It might have worked. It was fun for awhile. With any other kid the game might have stayed amusing. But Georgie was just...an ass. He had a lot to learn about life and he wasn't going to get those smarts from his mother...or his boys. The hard way, detention at school (or even suspension), and the inevitable stint in juvie might straighten him out. Or maybe not.

Either way, House couldn't wait for _that_ phone call

The apartment door slammed and he was alone--for a little while. An easy grin spread across his face as he scooped up the ten tens and stuffed them in his pocket. Myrna had been right about the money. He didn't have to part with a cent.

Myrna was right about lots of things.

The bills crinkled in his pocket as he limped toward the closet to choose a dress shirt for tonight.

_Yeah._

He pushed aside shirt after shirt, searching for one that always came through in a pinch. The Shirt That Never Wrinkled. _Here it is_. He pulled the shirt off its hanger, flung it on the bed, patted his jeans pocket and chuckled wickedly.

_To the victor go the spoils_.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a while since Greg had chosen the Cartoon Network for his viewing pleasure. But that's what Myrna found on the box when she arrived home. Bugs Bunny, clad in his fruit basket hat, was cavorting around Elmer Fudd like a deranged Carmen Miranda. A tinny Latin mambo beat accompanied the gyrations.

Greg snored.

Those long legs and arms were splayed to the west and the east, his head tilted back, mouth open wide enough to catch flies. His snores were impressive...rising up, up, up to rumble the rafters. He had changed his clothes, which was unexpected. Myrna figured he would wait until the last minute to drag some ancient dress shirt out of that closet. Invariably the cuffs would be frayed, the color faded; it was a shirt that should have gone to Goodwill ages ago. But amazingly, this was not the case. He actually chose the blue one--The Shirt That Never Wrinkled--put aside for rare occasions like this.

"Hey." She ran a hand through his hair, then settled into the crook of his arm.

"Mmm." His head was still tilted back, eyes closed. But he had definitely rejoined the living. He draped his hand over Myrna's shoulder and pulled her close.

"I'm really sorry about today."

"Mmm...why? 's been lotsa fun." He peered at her through one eye. "Kid steals my meds, Mom wants control of you. How much better can life get?"

"I really got an earful from Frannie about your lunch date."

His smile was wistful, as if he were recalling the date with much fondness. If he were a cat he might have purred.

"They both feel pretty bad about how things worked out, Greg " Myrna said.

"They didn't tell you that. You just assume."

"Yeah, well." She shrugged. "Wishful thinking, I guess."

He rubbed his face with his free hand and yawned. "And if you're wrong?"

"I honestly don't care, which is kind of a relief. I feel...emancipated." She touched his thigh. "They'll probably come to the ceremony. But my mother had me book them an earlier flight. They'll be gone before we cut the cake."

"I am weak with joy."

"I'm going to take a shower, put on some makeup, get looking spiffy for dinner." She rose from the sofa and gave him a small grin. "Gotta make an impression on the fiancé's folks."

"Your ass looks good in those jeans."

"Don't change the subject."

"Just imagine us naked and writhing under the blankets when my dad is telling you what a mistake you're making marrying me." He winked. "He'll wonder what's behind that mysterious little grin."

"Greg!"

"Don't worry," he said. "Only I know what's behind that smile." His eyes wandered over her. "And those jeans."

"I'm off," she switched round on her heel and strode toward the bathroom.

"So are those jeans," he shouted as she closed the door behind her. "Pretty soon."

When he heard the rush of the shower spray, he stripped down to his underwear and tossed his clothes onto the sofa. Sans cane, he lurched toward the bathroom, grinning like a mischievous imp as he shouldered open the door. Elmer Fudd was _huntin' wabbits _on the TV, explaining in a sotto tone how he had to be _vew-wy, vew-wy quiet _as House moved into the moist heat of the bathroom. Myrna was humming as the water pounded the rubber bath mat, her silhouette flowing behind the shower curtain. House inched closer, the herbal scented steam enveloping him...

...as the door clicked shut.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Blythe House would not release her hands. Myrna imagined herself tethered to the woman forever, which would not do at all. Frannie was enough Mom baggage for anyone to deal with.

But Blythe's eyes were kind, her manner warm if somewhat fraught with disbelief. She shook her head slowly. The ambient lighting of Tutoni's Ristorante made her honey blonde hair look like soft spun gold. "Greg never told me how _lovely_ you were."

"You're very kind, Mrs. House."

"Blythe, please. Mrs. House sounds like some old school marm who still uses a hickory stick as a pointer."

Blythe chuckled and Myrna joined in, attempting to allay the discomfort bearing down on her from all directions. John House hadn't stopped scrutinizing her since they'd been seated. His look was sour, caustic. He was creeping her out.

She sighed and smiled as Blythe finally let go of her hands. She was a pleasant woman. But John? She wasn't so sure about him. Greg warned her. Yes, he did.

Myrna met John's eyes and nodded, wishing he would ask her something. Anything. At least then maybe she could get a conversation going. Greg was no help, stewing in silence, staring into his Scotch and water as he tapped his fork against the white linen tablecloth.

"Um..." Myrna ran some possible topics through her head: the military (she knew nothing about it), world travel (the farthest she'd traveled was to Las Vegas with some drunken college friends, way back when...).

"How old are you?" John barked, causing Myrna to flinch and Greg to straighten in his chair. John polished off his drink, and Myrna saw that his eyes were a bit too bright. How many Scotch and waters had he'd downed before joining them at the restaurant?

John banged his glass on the table, punctuating the action with a satisfied smack of his lips. "Blythe, get me another when the guy comes back."

Clicking her tongue, Blythe threw her husband a despairing look, "John."

"It's alright, Blythe." Myrna touched her arm. "To answer your question, Captain House, I'm twenty eight."

"Twenty eight." He rubbed his jaw, his look of curiosity turning steely and suspicious. "What would a pretty young thing like you...want with a beat up piece of parchment like _him?" _He gestured at House with a tilt of his chin.

Myrna's mouth fell open.

"John, that was uncalled for." Blythe hissed.

"Having fun, Dad?" House's eyes narrowed, sending a hostile message across the table.

Their waiter, who had introduced himself earlier as Romero, returned to gather up their empty and nearly empty salad plates. Bowing, he offered them a toothy grin before heading off to check on their entrees.

"Fellow's going to have stop acting like a fag if he wants a tip." John's belly laugh caused the table to shake.

"Excuse me." Myrna grabbed her purse from where it hung over the back of her chair. She made a valiant attempt at a smile before scurrying off to the ladies room.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

As a rule, four star restaurants boasted four star restrooms. _Tutoni's_ was no exception. Myrna sat on a cushy sofa in the actual 'rest' spot, an anteroom that opened into the essential stalls, sinks and hand dryer area. In the corner was a brass rack filled with magazines like _Good Housekeeping_ and_ Cosmopolitan_, opposite the sofa was a full length mirror; paintings of country villas lined the adjacent wall. Pastel colors were the rule: yellows, pinks, greens. Everything was light and airy, floral scented and pretty, which offset Myrna's steadily darkening mood nicely.

She closed her eyes, breathed in the soapy, sanitary air and wished she were home, under the blankets. Greg could be there too, if he wanted. If not, she would be just as happy hearing the murmur of the TV or the soft meanderings of his fingers on the Baldwin's keys...

Drifting...sleepy. Too much had gone on today. Too many things to think about for tomorrow. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of Captain House. He was every bit the ass Greg said he was. His mother was okay, nice, sweet. Living with John House for most of her life could not have been easy. But something did hold true for the two of them: they both couldn't believe this young chippy would fall for their damaged mess of a son.

They had a lot to learn about Nurse Myrna.

"Are you okay, dear?"

She didn't know how long her eyes had been closed. She felt logy, like someone had slipped something _interesting_ in her drink. A gentle hand rubbed her shoulder and she opened her eyes.

"Sorry," she managed a small, embarrassed smile. Her cheeks were hot. She was certain her face was as red as a ripe tomato.

"We thought you might have slipped out the back way," Blythe said, seating herself beside Myrna. She placed her purse on her lap, then patted Myrna's hand. "To be honest, I wouldn't have blamed you if you did. You look so tired...like you've had a bellyful of this."

"It's...just been that kind of day. I'm...kind of stressed..."

"Who _wouldn't _be stressed?" Blythe nodded a greeting at two elderly women passing by. Arms linked, they appeared to be holding each other up as they shuffled toward the 'inner sanctum'. "You're getting married tomorrow."

"I didn't think it would be like this." Tears pricked her eyes, which was not good. One thing she didn't want was to turn her first conversation with this nice, sane woman into some dramatic scene. "I guess I thought it would be easy."

"Oh, my God. Nothing good comes easy, Myrna." Blythe laughed. "Look how long it took Greg to find you."

She felt shocked and strangely elated, like she had just won the Caribbean cruise on Wheel Of Fortune. "You're very, kind...Blythe. But you and I, we've only just met. You have no idea-"

"You don't think I know?" The corners of Blythe's eyes crinkled. Those eyes were a soft grey, nothing like the intense blue of Greg's, but their look of unwavering curiosity was identical to his. "I've traveled the world, met so many different kinds of people in all walks of life." She cocked her head and her eyes shone. "I _know_ you, Myrna."

Myrna averted her eyes and rubbed her forehead. Those tears were pressing now.

"You're good for him, Myrna." Blythe touched her chin. The touch was light but it forced Myrna's head up. A tear slipped down Myrna's cheek and she silently cursed it. "Being with you is probably the best thing that's ever happened to him."

"Oh." Myrna sniffed. "I don't know. Stacy-"

"Stacy was a good woman. But she was too much like Greg in all the wrong ways." Smiling gently, Blythe dug into her purse. She retrieved a tissue and handed it to Myrna. "I just want you to know that I'm glad you're with him. Glad you're going to be part of this family."

"Well, thank you." The tissue smelled like perfume and soap. Myrna dabbed her eyes with it before crumpling it in her fist. "That...means a lot."

"And please don't worry about John. He was somewhat overwhelmed by the news and...needed some liquid courage today." Blythe's smile fled suddenly, like it had ducked around a corner. A moment later it returned, brighter than before. "I promise he'll be on his best behavior tomorrow."

"I-well.."

"Ssssh, dear. You don't have to say anything." Blythe smoothed her dress, clicked shut her purse and stood. "Come now, I'm sure dinner is on the table, and those two are probably involved in some ridiculous argument that needs refereeing."

Myrna stood and extended her hand. "Thank you, Blythe."

Blythe stepped closer and wrapped Myrna in a warm, maternal hug. "Thank _you._"

-----------------------------------------------------------------

He pushed deeper_, deeper, _until he heard her soft exhalation, telling him it was oh, so good. She tightened herself around him, causing his heartbeat to quicken. _Slow, slow_ now. His hands drifted to her buttocks, cupping them in his palms as she hitched her hips upward and grinded _slowly_ against him.

Their moans merged.

_God, she was so incredibly wet. _

She let her muscles relax, then clamped herself around him again, tighter than before.

He began to move inside her, hips rolling, matching her delicious circular motion.

_"Easy," _she breathed warm against his mouth.

"Want you," he closed his eyes, feeling them both begin to fly.

"Second thoughts?" she asked as their rhythm intensified.

He grunted, now staring into her eyes, which were fogged with passion and something else...

..._sadness...?_

"Yes."

"'s okay." She twitched her hips and ran her hands over his lower back, causing him to quicken his movements. They were high above the clouds, closing in on that upper stratosphere. "We...can...call it off. Stay...like we are."

"No."

_Higher...higher..._

"You sure?"

"Yessss!"

The bed creaked a multitude of complaints as they fell through the stars and the heavens, finally exploding as one into the sun.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **This story was a joy to write. I'd like to thank everyone for reading, reviewing and just enjoying the ride.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Beta: **Thanks to **NaiveEve**, my beta extraordinaire!

**-16-**

_Thump, thump, thump, thump._

"Stop. Doing. That." Scowling, Wilson paused in his task and just...glared...

_Thump, thump, thump._

...his irritation seeming only to spur House on. Offering up a sickly sweet grin, House arched one brow, raised the tip of his cane two inches above the hardwood again and ...

_...thump, thump, thump_...

"House, in case you hadn't noticed, 1974 has been and gone. That disco beat is dead." Wilson said.

"Not in my little corner of Studio 54." _Thump, thump, thumpa, thump, thump._

"So when does it stop?"

"When you're done," House crowed, "I'm done."

Wilson snorted, deciding it was best to ignore this irritation, this crimp in the fabric of the day. He manufactured a grin and continued playing gentleman's gentleman: straightening the lapels of House's new suit, whisking off any lint that might have had the audacity to land anywhere on House's person, fussing with the red carnation in House's buttonhole.

"What are you doing now?"

"Your carnation was crooked."

"I don't need to wear this damn flower." House's free hand was a claw, drawing ever closer to the scarlet accessory.

Wilson batted the claw away. "House. It's part of your wedding attire. It's just...what you do."

The thumping ceased. "You mean it's what _you_ did."

"That too."

"Ri-ight. Let me clue you in to something important."

"And that would be..."

"Real men don't wear floral arrangements."

"Says the real man with the flower in his lapel." Wilson let out an incredulous laugh.

"Not my idea." House glowered. "I was coerced."

Tilting his head, Wilson fussed with the flower again. "It looks...nice."

"Ah...now I know."

"You know what?" Wilson said.

"You're gay," House proclaimed, shaking a finger in Wilson's face. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," House sang, his voice filling every corner of his apartment.

Wilson chuckled. He gave the lapels one final tug, then stood back to observe his handiwork. "There. I guess that's as good as you're going to get." He folded his arms. "I don't suppose there's any chance you might consider shaving."

House flapped his lips. "Hah! You're lucky I got my hair cut this morning."

"Hmmph, guess you're right."

Brushing a finger lightly over the carnation, House smirked.

"You'll want to use the special cane today," Wilson said.

"You mean...the pimp cane."

Sighing, Wilson cocked his head. "The ebony one with the silver filigree."

"The pimp cane."

"Whatever."

_Thump, thump, thump..._

"I have the rings." Wilson's focused his gaze somewhere over House's shoulder. He patted the pocket of his suit jacket, then ticked off details on his fingers. "Rings, limo to take the bride and her family to the town hall-"

"You didn't have to spring for that."

"I wanted to," Wilson said. "The thought of Myrna driving her SUV in her wedding dress- to her own wedding-was just not something I could live with."

"She didn't mind."

"Well, _I_ did," Wilson jabbed a forefinger against his chest.

House grunted as he rubbed his chin. "Did you do that thing I asked you to do?"

Wilson looked at him. "What...thing?"

"You didn't do it?" House's face went paste white as his shoulders slumped. "You've got to be fuckin' kid-"

Wilson's lobbed a smug 'gotcha' grin over the net.

"You _idiot_." House pressed his palm to his forehead, letting out a rush of air through his teeth. "And you say I'm sadistic."

Wilson laughed.

"So you...did do it." House asked with some hesitation. "Right?"

"Of course I did it. How could I forget?"

"You're so intent on rings and limos and keeping your closet door locked."

"I'm _not_ gay."

Fully recovered now, House threw him an exaggerated wink. "It's okay, Jimmy. The world is one big beautiful rainbow. And you and your man love are an important part of it." He leaned forward and in a sotto voice added, "The loveliest, softest, pinkest part."

"Wonderful sentiment, House." Wilson rubbed his cheek, making a valiant attempt to keep his smile at bay. "Put it in a Hallmark card."

They turned as one toward the apartment door.

"Do you realize that the next time you enter this place you will be legally bound to another human being?" Wilson said.

The silence was five down pillows thick, smothering every bit of life energy in the room. From the corner of his eye, Wilson could see House standing motionless, stoically staring at the door. At any moment he might decide to throw off the suit jacket, undo the tie and settle in for an afternoon of Budweisers and TV.

Wilson silently berated himself, wondering what could have possessed him to throw neon lights around that 'legal bond' fact. It was undoubtedly the worse thing he could have said. Maybe he was a masochist.

"Sorry...mouth is quicker than the brain."

"That may be," House responded, finally. "But you can bet I won't be wearing this damn floral arrangement when Myrna leads me over that threshold."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Once upon a time, it was the day before graduation. Congratulations were in order for reasons other than the obvious ones. For the latter half of the semester, Lissey had successfully managed to avoid slipping under the spell of Gregory House. She surprised herself by actually keeping the promise she'd made on that idyllic Honolulu beach over winter break. Not that Greg hadn't tried for the occasional panty peeling session. Not that she hadn't been oh, so tempted. But sticking to her guns and bringing out the demon word 'No', when necessary, made this project a success. Lissey wished she could have bottled that look on Greg's face each time he'd been rebuffed. It was...priceless._

_Freshly showered, she decided to treat herself to a coffee and muffin from the café downstairs. Her mother and sister would be arriving in a couple of hours. After that, quiet time would be at a premium. At least for the next couple of days._

_But the best laid plans sometimes end up discarded and forgotten in the dust..._

_She tucked her paperback copy of "For Whom the Bell Tolls" into her purse and tried to turn her doorknob. Of course it wouldn't give. Of course when she tried again, the door pushed in and there he was, standing before her in all his lanky, loose limbed glory. Clad in a t-shirt and sweats, he hadn't yet shaved. The messy shock of hair, the stubble on his cheeks and jaw, and the wild look in those eyes was making something interesting happen in Lissey's nether region._

_No. Nonononono._

_"Going out?" he asked, moving past her like a cat on the prowl._

_"Coffee."_

_"Oooh," He flopped down on her bed and stretched out, sneakered feet waving back and forth. Grinning beatifically, he placed his hands under the pillow beneath his head and cooed, "In the mood for something strong and hot, are you?"_

_She sighed. "Don't you have some things to do like maybe...showering and shaving?"_

_"Hmm, well, paying Lissey a visit was the first thing on my to do list this morning. So congratulations to you."_

_"Gee, I'm really flattered."_

_"Of course you are. What woman wouldn't be?" He smirked. "After all."_

_Against her better judgment, she closed the door. "You really shouldn't be here, Greg." She knew she should be heading down to the café, where the hottest, strongest thing there would be the freshly brewed coffee. _

_But her feet had other ideas._

_He reached a hand to her as she stopped just inches away. "You've been avoiding me." Those blue eyes held her with a look of boyish hurt. "That's not nice."_

_Now something extremely interesting was roiling in the netherworld. _

_"Greg, you should really-"_

_He massaged the empty space beside him. "It's been a long time, Lissey."_

_She swallowed, then let out a long breath._

_"Remember how good it was?"_

_Yes. She did. And it was._

_"One last time," he breathed._

_Lissey could almost feel the mattress dip beneath her, could almost feel his long fingers wandering expertly over her nakedness, like she was some concerto he had long ago put to memory. She could feel the arch of her hips, the long even strokes as he moved inside her..._

_"No." She was surprised how easily the demon word fell from her lips._

_He leaned forward, let the back of one hand brush her thigh._

_"No." She repeated, closing her eyes._

_The mattress squeaked as he rose from the bed and brushed past her. She could smell him: a heady scent of musk, Listerine, something else, some soapy fragrance that was probably fabric softener or laundry detergent. His scent would be on her bed now, in the fibers of her sheet, her pillowcase. It would linger. She would have a hard time sleeping tonight._

_But it would be worth it in the long run, she would tell herself many times over the course of graduation weekend._

_The door closed and she was alone-_

"Dr. Cuddy."

Cuddy looked up from where she sat on one of the twin beds. Myrna stood before her, Cameron by her side. They were in Frannie's hotel room. A professional makeup case lay open on top of the dresser; little pots of glosses, blushes, eye shadows and foundations were lined up alongside tubes of eyeliners, lipsticks and mascaras. It was Cameron's arsenal in the war against the dull and the frowzy.

Myrna's mother and brother had scooted out the minute the women had arrived. Something was wrong here, some dysfunctional thing that Myrna didn't seem to want to talk about. That was okay; she didn't have to. It _was_ her day, after all.

"Well?" Cameron asked, beaming, her eyes straying toward Myrna before drifting back to Cuddy.

At the last minute, Myrna had changed her mind and agreed to allow Cameron to fix her makeup and hair. Myrna actually made the call to Cuddy yesterday, asking shyly if both women wouldn't mind doing the honors. Cuddy said she was pretty adept at doing her own 'cosmetic surgery' as she termed it. But Dr. Cameron was the one who was most handy with makeovers and hairstyles. Would that be okay?

Judging by the results, it was more than okay. "House isn't going to know what hit him."

Cuddy shook her head, astonished. "I mean," Cuddy stammered, "not that you weren't always pretty-"

Myrna held up one hand. "-I know...what you mean."

It didn't seem like Cameron had done much, which was the magic of her artistry. Myrna's hair was somewhat straighter now, feathered away from her forehead, allowing more of her face to show. The makeup served to accentuate her most attractive features, bringing out the green of those eyes, the fullness of her lips, while taking the onus off the weak chin and pale complexion. Myrna, it seemed, was a true knockout.

Myrna studied herself in the mirror, then turned toward them. "Thank you both, very much." Tears shimmered in her eyes.

"For God's sake, Myrna, don't cry." Cuddy held up her hands as if to stop the flow.

"Don't worry. It would take a liter of cold cream to ruin it." Cameron plucked a tissue from the box on the dresser and handed it to Myrna. "Water resistant makeup on a woman's wedding day is _de rigueur._"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The room looked more suited for a town meeting than a wedding ceremony. A green board covered one wall, flyers announcing community events were tacked to a bulletin board by the door. Cuddy felt steeped in the surreal, like the whole thing was some oddball dream.

But this was no dream.

There was House in the front of the room by the podium, Wilson chattering away beside him. Wilson was the marriage expert, having taken the plunge three times. Naturally he would have a lot to say, a multitude of advice to give. The Justice Of the Peace, clad in a black suit and gold tie reigned from behind the podium. He looked cheerful and relaxed. But the way he rubbed his hands together and checked his watch said he wanted to get this thing underway and over with. Soon.

Cuddy stood by the greenboard, returning the smiles of her colleagues. She recognized House's parents. His mother seemed like a lovely woman. She was chatting with Juanita, wife of the late janitor, Manuel. House's father stood beside them, stiff as a grey statue, looking like he didn't quite know where to put his hands.

Her gaze drifted to House again. The anticipation of becoming a married man seemed to be wearing him down. His shoulders were hunched, his gaze flitting to every corner of the room before landing on Wilson again. G-Man was looking a little green around the gills.

Was House actually going to go through with this? It was the second time that day Cuddy had been assaulted by the thought. _Greg House didn't do marriage. _The mantra played over and over in her head. But he was here, she reminded herself, and that was...something.

The thirty or so guests milled around, most of them apparently not yet ready to settle into their folding chairs. Cameron strolled through the room, looking like some debutante out on the town as she linked arms with Chase. Foreman was chatting with Nurse Helena, an attractive, buxom thing who worked with Myrna. Foreman was smiling, _really_ smiling, like he was actually glad to be here. Perhaps he would land himself a date...or something close to it, by the end of this day. House's mother had seated herself, and was now engrossed in conversation with Alicia, one of the receptionists at the clinic. His father was on the move, pacing, seeming at once pensive and bored.

Some swarthy looking beast of a man roved around silently, snapping photos. Rather than asking for smiles, he widened his lips as he closed in on his prey, clicking away whether his target mimicked his scary grin or not.

House must have hired him; beast man probably came cheap.

Cuddy sighed, pushed herself away from the wall and was just about to find a seat when the door to the room banged open. She gasped and flinched. Frannie and George nearly stumbled over each other as they made their entrance. They each held a suitcase, which, on Frannie's impatient cue, were dropped by the wall beneath the bulletin board. She glowered at the kid who responded by plugging himself into his iPod. Standing stone faced by their bags, they both checked their watches like they were waiting for a train.

The room had quieted considerably. Cuddy eased into a seat on the aisle. From the corner of her eye she spied Myrna just outside the door. She paced, seemingly agitated. Her eyes were wide and a little frantic.

Frannie and George had begun sniping. Their banter was hushed but vitriolic. Cuddy caught the occasional profanity flying like a poison dart from the kid's mouth.

The 'discussion' was becoming louder, more heated...

...and Cuddy wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

Most of the guests had taken their seats. A quiet murmur filled the room. All eyes had fallen on the pair by the wall.

Then...

"Don't!" Wilson had a hand on House's shoulder. "Let me do this."

House's knuckles were white against the silver head of that black cane. His fingers pressed down and in, grinding the tip of the cane against the tan carpet. His thumb tapped the smooth wood in time to some stressful, inner rhythm. He took one lurching step toward the pair, his jaw working, his lips moving to whatever crude meanderings were going on in that head.

"House."

"Let me go." House's voice was soft, hoarse...

...livid.

"Stay. Here," Wilson said. "For Myrna. Please."

"I want them out."

"Let me handle this."

An uneasy silence fell over the room. Occasionally a chair would shift, someone would cough. Everyone was waiting. The Justice of the Peace checked his watch and threw a few uneasy smiles around. Behind the podium and the Justice, Juanita retrieved a violin from its case. House grimaced.

By the wall, Wilson leaned over and spoke softly into Frannie's ear. Her brow furrowed as she shook her head. He whispered again, this time gesturing toward the few chairs still available. She pouted, wrapped her arms around her skinny frame and flapped her lips. The kid was oblivious, bopping his head to whatever was pouring from those earbuds.

_They're ruining the day, _Cuddy realized, her gaze falling on House again. One of his hands twirled that cane in a wide languid circle; he was watching the proceedings like a cobra, waiting for the right moment to strike.

It would only be a matter of time before everything simply...imploded.

_You have to do something..._

Donning her most practiced administrative grin, Cuddy rose and made her way toward the podium.

"Sit," House barked.

But Cuddy kept that smile going and sidled up next to him. "Calm. Down," she hissed in his ear. "I need to talk to you."

"So talk."

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, continuing to plead with the stubborn woman. Not a good sign. The boy, in the meantime, eased himself down to the floor, then stretched his legs out in front of him.

_Make yourself friggin' at home. It's only your sister's wedding._

"House." Cuddy licked her lips, then spoke again, her voice low and even. "Look how beautiful your bride is."

House set a hand on his hip and rolled his eyes. "Don't start..."

"Look over by the door." She gripped his shoulder and shook him. "Your bride."

He turned his head, narrowed his eyes and...froze.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

His mouth opened...but nothing came out, no snide comment, no opinionated diatribe. It was...refreshing. He seemed truly astonished. Cuddy gave Cameron a lot of credit. Who knew all it took to silence House was a bit of face paint expertly applied to his bride-to-be?

And guess what?" Cuddy said softly, "that beauty is marrying you today. At least that's the plan."

"I...know."

"And nobody else matters. Not me or your team or Myrna's annoying family or any of these people here today," Cuddy told him slowly. "It's just you...and her. You are the ones who count. Don't let anyone take this day away from her House. Look at her." She shook his shoulder again. "_Look _at your bride."

A hint of a smile played on his lips as he gazed at the woman waiting by the door. That smile made Cuddy feel a whole lot better; the ache in her gut gradually fading into the blue.

Like a maestro with a magic baton, she gestured at Juanita to start the music, then made tracks for Wilson. He was still pleading with the bride's ridiculous excuse for a mother, which was futile; it was like flogging a dead horse. Let Frannie stay against the wall, like the outsider she had strived to become.

"Come on, Dr. Wilson," Cuddy touched his shoulder as a scratchy rendition of the wedding march began to play. "You have something more important to do."

He gave Frannie one last regretful look before accompanying Cuddy to where Myrna waited. She was restless, smoothing her dress, touching her hair. Her eyes were filled with anxiety and excitement. Wilson nodded, straightening his shoulders, offering his arm.

"Ready?" he whispered.

In response, Myrna slipped her arm through his. She managed a small smile before shifting her gaze to the man waiting for her at the front of the room.

Sinking into her seat, Cuddy watched the proceedings, her shoulders slumping with great relief when Gregory House finally said, "I do".

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They swayed together in the center of the dance floor. At House's request, the song of the moment was an instrumental version of "Blame It On the Bossa Nova".

"So how does it feel?" Cuddy asked. She was more than a little tipsy, having downed two Long Island Iced Teas in the span of fifteen minutes.

"Like I'm in prison and warden's tossed the key into the Hudson."

"You're so full of it."

"And you're lit brighter than a full moon over Princeton."

"How poetic." She giggled.

"What can I say? You make a wonderful lush."

"Shucks, I bet you say that to all your inebriated boss ladies."

Myrna was at the buffet table, attempting to fill her plate but getting sidelined by well wishers.

"I don't think she's going to get much to eat today."

"She'll make up for it later," he said with a devilish hitch of his brows.

"You're impossible."

"No, I'm easy." He sniggered. "But you knew that."

The beastman photographer drifted over, grinning his ghastly grin as he snapped their picture.

"Where the hell did you find _him_?" she asked, eyeing the guy as he snuck up on Chase and Cameron.

"Rehab," House replied.

She blinked, making a concerted effort to keep the room from tilting. Slipping her arms around him, she murmured in his ear. "I'm happy for you, House. Just do me a favor."

"What's that?"

"Don't fuck it up. If you do, I'll get the brunt of it. You'll be even more of a pain in my ass..."

House rested his chin on top of her head. "Yes ma'am. Lissey."

Tears. She could blame them on drunkenness or because weddings always made her cry. A smidgen of truth lived in each of these excuses. But if honesty was in order, she would have to admit she that "Lissey" was the reason for the waterworks. Hearing her med school nickname fall from House's lips after so many years struck her hard.

She leaned her head against his chest as they swayed together for one last dance.

Then she knew...life had changed irrevocably. Nothing would ever be the same.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once upon a time a doctor named Gregory married a nurse named Myrna, and the people rejoiced. They ate buffet food, downed a good amount of grog and sang songs of health and good cheer to the bride and groom.

And it was good.

As the party came to a close, the doctor's best friend Jimmy announced that a wonderful surprise was about to be revealed: Gregory had a special present for his bride! The people applauded, oohing and aahing their approval. They were given plastic bottles of soap bubbles, herded outside the restaurant and instructed to wait on the steps.

There was great anticipation as to what the groom's present might be, for Gregory was a known prankster. But perhaps, this time, he was serious. Might the gift be a golden robe? A silver comb? The wedding guests had a wonderful time speculating, for there was nothing so captivating as a mystery. And as they wondered, they raised their wands and blew bubbles in the air, watching them drift off into the cloudless blue sky. The people were as excited and happy as little children.

Suddenly, from some distance down the road came a roar and a clatter. The people paused in their celebration and watched in wonder as two motorcycles rode up and parked just outside the entrance to the restaurant. The drivers removed their helmets and, after hanging them on the bikes' handlebars, walked off down the street without a word.

The cycles gleamed in the afternoon sun, the smaller, sleeker one sparkling brighter than its mate. Along its flank, the word _Shadow_ was emblazoned in trim black script. The other bike, a deep orange Repsol, was somewhat scuffed, a little worn around the edges. Certainly this bike had seen a good portion of these merry roads of Princeton.

After few more moments of chatter, speculation and bubble blowing, the little throng quieted...for the doors to the restaurant had opened and here stood Myrna on the top step. She was clad in a leather jacket and jeans. Her hands trembled as they pressed against her face; it was obvious she could not believe what she was seeing. Gregory stood beside her and whispered in her ear. She then took his arm as they strode down the steps through a forest of bubbles and laughter.

Leaning on his cane, Gregory watched as Myrna ran her hands over her gift, her Shadow. After making certain it was real and solid and not an errant piece of dreamscape, she donned her helmet and boarded the beauty. With an expert flick of her wrist she revved the motor and waited for Gregory to seat himself on his bike.

Only Myrna waved farewell (for Gregory was not the waving type), as they roared off down the road to a chorus of cheers. Sometimes the Shadow took the lead, other times the Honda would sprint forward.

And occasionally they moved along together.

Side by side.


End file.
